Arkham: The Chronicles of Michael Saul
by N. Compass
Summary: Michael Saul is a disgraced physicist turned psychiatrist working at Arkham Asylum. This is the tale of his slow descent from an ordinary man with a rough adult life to become like the very people he tries to save, thanks to his entanglement with one villainess. Poison Ivy/OC, M/F, Some Cuckold
1. Grey Floors and Greyer Walls

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of this fanfiction with the pure exception of Michael Saul and several other characters. Characters such as Batman, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze and others belong to DC Comics and their respective creators/corporation.

**This is actually my second attempt in writing fanfiction. I had written one about Lucky Star a few years back but, I haven't had the time to get back to it.**

**I would like people to review and note mistakes if you will. I will be re-editing the story once I've come to a stumbling block.  
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_Thank you and enjoy!_

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><p>The sound of the rattling of iron bars radiated throughout the hallways. The maniacal laughter of one patient-cum-inmate echoed through the cells surrounding. The others around him were shouting nonsensical, undecipherable mutterings. He, the madman in white, wrapped in a straitjacket pounded the cold, hard, black iron bars with his bare feet.<p>

Burst into the rooms were seven burly men with thick arms and broad shoulders, stampeding through the hallway in unison and hurriedly to the cell of the madman. They were dressed in light green gowns like a surgeon but, instead of removing a tumor or fixing a palpitating heart, they brought with them a syringe and an attitude to knock the sanity into the madman.

"Come on!" screamed the madman in white. "All I want is to have a little fun before Christmas… AND YOUR DEATH WILL DECK MY HALLS!"

The burly men responded back with violence, a fist to the madman's jaw and torso. They forced their knees and fists into regions hurtful to men, only to hear a chuckle out of his mouth. The madman continued to overpower the large men, kicking them to the walls of his cell with his still free feet. He bit the orderlies but, they were accustomed to the bites that it did not hurt them anymore.

"STOP HITTING MY PUDDIN'," screamed a woman in the cell next to the madman as one of the men restrained her to a wall. The screaming from the madman, the wailing from his female lover/accomplice and the rowdy cheering from the asylums around them truly made this madhouse a mad house.

Then, he entered through the door. He stopped at the doorframe, adjusted his tie and closed the door behind softly. He walked slowly, heel to toe, towards the overwhelmed orderlies. The orderlies were now able to hold his arms and legs, but his head flailed around wildly, laughing into their faces. The madman stared at the man wearing the tie and laughed maniacally.

"Well, Dr. Saul. It's a pleasure to see you so late at night," greeted sarcastically the madman. The guards struggled as he tried to lunge at the doctor.

"Good evening, Mr. Joker," smiled Michael genuinely. He took out his notepad, not looking at the Joker and continued, "What are you doing that is keeping these nice men from doing their jobs?"

"I'm not doing anything, Doc. I'm just trying to escape so they can actually do their jobs."

Saul laughed. "Heh, funny. Now, why won't we all just calm down before anyone gets hurt?"

Joker stared at the ground. He stopped writhing in the hands of the orderly. His maniacal face turned to remorse. His body became limp and the guards did not grip him as hard.

"Alright, doc. I'll play along," said the Joker in a remorseful voice.

The orderlies place the Joker on the floor with a force. He stared at the ground for a few more seconds as Michael continued writing his notes. The orderlies stepped back and within that instance, the smiling grimace on Joker's face reappeared, staring at the doctor's back. He laughed to himself and began his attack the doctor.

In that instance, Michael heard that snicker. As the Joker moved, he paced the Joker's movement with his grab for his suitcase. At the moment that he lunged at the doctor, Michael gracefully turned around in a 180 degree, hitting the Joker in the face with his suitcase. This sent the Joker to the wall with Michael now staring at the Joker, preparing to counter the attack.

Joker wiped his saliva off his cheeks and lunged at the doctor, laughing once more. Michael stood still, waiting for the madman to arrive to his position. At that precise moment where the Joker was about to hit him, Michael simply let the Joker move pass him and to his back. He then quickly turned around to the oncoming madman on the reverse, hitting the madman's face with his hard elbow. The Joker was dazed and fell to the floor. Then, Michael grabbed the Joker by his collar and locked his head between the iron bars. He then continued to punch the back, knee the abdomen and elbow the middle of the madman's back. He then took his head out and dumped the unconscious and beaten body of the Joker into his cell.

"Gentlemen, that is HOW you deal with an unreasonable patient," said Michael, sighing, looking at the orderlies while adjusting his tie. He took his pen from his shirt pocket and clicked it.

Suddenly, the semi-conscious Joker rose and prepared for his last onslaught. Michael was prepared for that attack too and he turned around, punched the Joker in the face once more and injected the pen to the Joker's neck. The syringe-pen injected the Joker with a powerful sedative that made the madman slump onto the doctor's body in the instant. Saul pushed the body away from his, aiming for the raised cot. He missed and the guards just looked at the guard.

Looking at the confused guards, Michael irritatingly and embarrassedly uttered, "I-I-I'm a doctor, not a basketball player. Put him on his cot and let's go."

As he walked past the now crying mad woman, Michael stopped at her cell to only say, "Harleen, this isn't Jerusalem. Shut up, stop whining and get some sleep before I knock your teeth out."

Michael walked through the door and closed it behind him. While the orderlies moved the lifeless body of the Joker, Harleen stared at the doctor for a moment and knew that he was serious. He was always in a bad mood with her and her puddin'. She knew that the best thing to do for now was to keep her big mouth shut. She knew Michael was a sane man and a nice person. She worked with him once before and she was not surprised that he did not take any lip service from anyone. She crawls back into her cot and slept in the grey, uncomfortable wool blanket with the rock-hard pillow as support for her head and neck.

The cells gregarious laughter died quickly as Michael left the hall. The guards locked the cell door and turned off the lights.

Michael Saul is a daytime psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. Dealing with disturbed villains and criminals of Gotham City is his job. Usually, he would sit with patients like Mr. Freeze or Arnold Wesker to talk about their problems. Saul recognized that whenever he had a breakthrough with his patients, when they were set free, they'd come back three months later, worse than before.

Today, as he was about to leave for the evening, the Joker was up to his antics of trying to escape. With other people if they were on staff, he would be successful in escaping although he often left his Harley Quinn behind. However, most orderlies and doctors knew that with Michael around, no insane man would leave the asylum in one piece if they decided to paint the grey walls and grey floors of their cells with blood. It would be festive if the halls to the cells were painted a tint of red and green but, as much as it was the season of festivities, Saul could not let anything up with these people. They are here to be rehabilitated in a psychological and societal sense. Michael casts himself as the king of this domain. He had to for an inkling of these infirmed people to get better, a sense of understanding and discipline went both ways. Many disagreed with him but, he did not care. He was there for the patients and nothing more.

Saul knew his place.


	2. The Usual Steps

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of this fanfiction with the pure exception of Michael Saul and several other characters. Characters such as Batman, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze and others belong to DC Comics and their respective creators/corporation.

**This is a new chapter. I want to give you a sense of how Saul (I prefer calling him that) is a very ordinary person andalso, not ordinary in the occupation he is in. I also want to give the Arkham to have a sense of rush, urgency and fear with the description of the city proper.  
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**I would like people to review and note mistakes if you will. I will be re-editing the story once I've come to a stumbling block.  
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_Thank you and enjoy!_

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><p>By the side table, a blue neon light emanated from the alarm clock. It was four minutes to five thirty. In this dark room, the window to the left of the bed was left ajar slightly. If one were outside, one can see into his room shining bright neon blue, courtesy of the alarm clock. The curtains flailed around as Gotham often had windy dawns. The thermostat on the wall had its dial broken. It was just a regular room, like any other.<p>

This loft was unlike most bachelor pads. It did not have the stains and stench of pizza on the living room couch. Nor did the loft have the typical messiness associated with single men. Upon the walls in that unusual living room, bookcases upon bookcases lined the walls. The bookcases were filled with to the brim with books. It resembled a private library for a rich man.

The alarm clock rang.

A hand peeked through the bed sheets, fumbling and struggling to find something. The hand finds the button and ends the noise machine. The hand then collapsed, hitting the sides of the bed as it falls. The body lay motionless for another five minutes. Suddenly, the body rose from the bed. Sluggishly, the disheveled hair covered his face. He then parted his brown medium-length tresses to the back and he looked at the alarm clock intently. Sitting at the bed, he peered out his window to see that the spring-like winter Gotham had was taking its toll on the park opposite his loft.

It was not weird that the old botanical garden was facing gradual dilapidation. After all, this was the one of the rougher sides of Gotham. Every night, you could hear the gun fired from a large caliber gun. Crying can be heard from the alleyways. Rapes were frequently happening in this neighborhood. Armed robberies were a close second. Murder was not as frequent as people thought. The neighborhood had good people, living with good intentions but, hoodlums decide to make this their "Preyground". The people lived in perpetual fear in the Preygrounds. This was not an unwarranted fear as they feared the evil that lurks behind every corner and the masked vigilante. This was a neighborhood of insecurity.

However, some nights, if one was lucky, one can hear the fights up on the roof between the vigilante, Batman and his nest of rogues that always ended up in Arkham Asylum. Back when the vigilante had less to deal with, the fights would have been a spectacle for the neighborhood. Nowadays, these crazed fools who fought on the rooftops were growing in numbers and in the powers they wielded.

At one point, the botanical garden became a point of conflict. A villainess traversed down into this part of Arkham, made the gardens her lair and turned the virtually desolate and dying grove into an oasis. Granted, the gardens became creepier and neighborhood children who walked too close to the garden risked becoming her prey. Eventually, the masked vigilante made his way into the gardens and rinsed and repeated what he usually did on the rooftops or the alleyways. That villainess was a godsend to the neighborhood in some ways. Crimes stopped when she lurked the garden. She was also a force that the Preygrounds did not want. The missing children last seen at the garden was at best the greatest indication of disdain from the neighborhood.

"At least it's turning green again," sighed Michael as he peeks through the curtain to see the gardens. The old hothouse was still intact, dustier with greyish green grime covering the surface. Many of the haunting trees that were rooted deep in the outside garden were dying not from the weather but from just the missing catalyst that kept it all alive.

He leapt from bed, took a quick shower and quickly dressed for work. This was his usual routine. Leaving his room and tying his necktie, as usual, he opened his fridge and grabbed a couple of eggs. The usual thing was to fry the eggs sunny-side up. He did as such. He grabbed an orange from the counter and peeled it open. The usual thing was to eat it and dump the skin into the fridge. As he waited for his toast that he prepared on the side, as usual, he turned on the television and continues to cook his eggs. This was the same time that the weather report just finished and the news anchors jabbered on and on about the day's top news.

"We have the latest installment of the siege on Homs in just a moment but first, let's take a look at today's local news," said the woman news anchor.

"Thank you, Patricia. Earlier in the morning, police with the help of Batman captured Poison Ivy at Arparo Park. Since the reopening of Arkham, Poison Ivy had not been caught for the past three and half years. Finally, the saga comes to a close when police raided the ruined ballpark to apprehend Poison Ivy, seen here robbing a bank with help of her plant accomplices and Harley Quinn."

"It's odd, don't you think Jim?" retorted Patricia to her co-host. "Her friend gets caught robbing the bank and she gets off scot-free." As she said those words, the image of Ivy being led to a police vehicle was shown on the television. Michael drank his coffee as he took the eggs of the pan and onto his plate.

"As we speak, they will be sending her to Arkham Asylum for treatment while she is waiting for her impending trial," continued Jim. "Police have filed charges of aggravated assault, attempted murder, armed robbery and grand perjury against Poison Ivy. We will have more in the coming hours."

Saul ate his eggs as he continued watching the television. In his mind, it starts to rumble furiously to hear that a villain has yet again been caught and sent down his way to be treated. For him, the case of Poison Ivy was one case he loved to engage in. Since the records of the old Arkham Asylum burned with the old imposing structure, the only records of her were online. Scarce with details, he had read her file many times, just like the many patients' files he has read.

As he finished eating his breakfast while lost in his thoughts, he jumped back into reality. He quickly washed his plate and left it to dry on the dish rack. Then, he sees upon the domed ceiling window, the sun touching its warm glow upon his loft's living room's floor, thanks to a few well-placed mirrors. The mahogany floorboards began to sizzle from the rays. The smell permeated the loft. He knew the floors would not burn as the mahogany was also laminated. Suddenly, he noticed that it was time to leave and also, it was time to do something extra important.

He went close to the table that held a special item. Filled from its base to the tip, this was a magnificent specimen of how evolution was at its finest. Life was already random and selective. The advent of humans cannot be called random or selective. For Michael, this plant that Hannah gave him, this magnificent of an orchid was something that Michael held in the highest esteem. The orchid's slender curve was a pleasant sight for Michael. The dews on the petals glistened the light from the sun, creating a beautiful radiant sight from anywhere in the room.

The sight of such a simplistic flower that had such a complex structure was the most beguiling thing for Michael. As he watered the flower, he smiled. In fact, watering that orchid was the only thing that made him smile since Hannah passed away. His beautiful white orchid that had brownish yellow freckles kept him in solace. Its soft yellow trim at its end was one thing that kept him together.

He looked at the orchid once more. His smile was still on his face. He grabbed a book, from his bookcase, as usual, took his briefcase by the door, as usual and took one last look at his loft. He opened the door leaving his apartment and stepped out with his right foot first, then his left. He held the briefcase and the book with his right hand while his left hand remained behind him, idle. He turned around, locked the door from the inside and shut the door from his left hand.

The smile left his face.

As usual.

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><p>Packed like a sardine, morning rides in a Gotham City subway is like riding the night trains. Dangerous and filled with angry people from an already disgruntled metropolis, the subway ride from Endbury to Marlon was thankfully short. It is amazing to see the waters from River Liberty in the morning as its murky waters begin to reflect the sun's rays. You would not want to swim in the river but, you want to just watch a yacht pass through those narrow passages.<p>

"Next stop, Sallow," cried the intercom.

"And cue three, two, and one…" counted Michael in his mind.

The train stopped at the station. All of the passengers got off, leaving Michael the sole soul on board the train. He found it odd that people got off at Sallow. Why would you want to work at Sheal? It was the uglier side of Gotham state and the industrial heartland. He questioned why didn't the city's founders built trains heading straight to City Industrial Park? Thoughts like this enveloped Micheal every morning.

It was one stop before Marlon, the station where people working at (or escaping from) the asylum frequently use. He heard of the superstitions that people where literally murdered on the tracks as the patients who were released seek their own "release". The train closed its doors and started moving again full speed ahead. The emptiness of the train ride from Sallow to Marlon was always the most static thing in Michael's life. While other psychiatrists used their cars and drove through the gate, Michael liked walking up through the gate and uphill to the asylum.

This was a routine for Michael Saul every day for the past three years.

"Next stop, Marl-," cried the intercom. It accompanied a loud buzzing sound and static.

This was the usual thing one would hear as one reached Marlon.

"And cue three, two…"

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><p>"Good morning, Dr. Saul!" greeted the guard.<p>

Michael liked talking to the guards. The usual thing Michael did was to salute to any guard when he meets them in the morning. As usual, the guards would respond back in that playful gesture, raising their hand, saluting the non-uniformed personnel as though he was the Chief of Police. All the while, the guard sat on his chair.

"What're you reading there, Dick?" asked Michael politely.

"It's this new book about earning money in the stock market without even leaving your chair."

"You're buying into that kind of bunk, Dick?" quizzed Michael.

"Nah, I like pointing out the obvious flaws about capitalism and how much this writer is pompous airhead," answered the guard sarcastically.

Michael snickered. "Funny and here I thought all you guards were dumb…"

"And you psychiatrists are overpaid girlfriends for the insane," retorted the guard sarcastically towards the sarcasm Michael brought out. The only thing Michael did was laugh back and then, his smile disappeared once more as he waved goodbye to the guard and walked to the elevator.

He enters the empty elevator and pressed the button. Arkham Asylum was rebuilt from the ashes. The old mansion became a husk of its former glory. Built atop the destroyed ruins of the old Arkham, the new Arkham became more of a hospital than an asylum. Sterile to a fault, the main lobbies and offices were as orderly as the gods intended. The cells that held the prisoners were meant to accommodate the worst criminals. Thanks to the tax dollars of the average citizen amassed by the citizens, it helped pay for the comfortable living that the insane would never get outside of Arkham.

Also, there was Bruce Wayne. He was the trustee to many community trust boards and programs. The richest person in town came with its responsibilities. He was a typical billionaire. He had enough money to spend. He flaunted the money when he could, invested it when he would and donated it when he should. He had reservations about money as Michael perceived. Although he lived in a grand mansion, the billionaire Wayne was spectacularly accommodating to a fault. Hence, when Arkham needed to be rebuilt, Wayne donated a large portion of his money to the institution. There was once a garden named after him outside in the old Arkham. Now, the garden, a symposium, a treatment wing and an office was named after the billionaire. The mark of the old owner, Jeremiah Arkham, was gone.

The elevator arrived at the third floor, the office floor.

Michael walked out of the elevator, briefcase in his right hand and walked towards his office. He opened the door and was greeted by the sight of his nurse-secretary, Ms. Campbell. The cheerful young psychiatric nurse was happy to work for Michael. She was always happy. Michael feared that she might snap if she was not careful. These were the types that could have their entire worldview snap in an instance.

"Good morning, Dr. Saul!" greeted the brunette.

"Good morning, Bridget," replied Michael as he hands his coat to the nurse. "What's my schedule for today?"

"Well, today, you have a session with Fries at ten for two hours. Then, you are required to attend a meeting later at one."

"What meeting is this? I wasn't informed about it…"

"It's about the endowment that the Wayne Psychiatry Board and also… they are looking to name the doctor to treat the new patient…" struggled Bridget as she looked through the book.

"Poison Ivy? Yes, I've heard that she's finally caught," speculated Michael.

Bridget looked at her book once more. "Yes, it's her, sir," replied the nervous nurse. "Just worried about how much of a seductress she is."

Michael then sat on his desk chair. "Read her profile a few months back. Needed to know patients who were frequent tenants of Chateau le Crazy," replied Michael. "Such a sad case, that Ivy has had."

"And of course, the doctors who always fell for her…" sighed Bridget.

"That is the least of my concerns for now. Most of them want to heal her. Not the best way to approach an angry woman."

Bridget let out a chortle. "You? Know women?"

"I was once engaged, let us not forget."

As Bridget leaves the office, she retorted sarcastically, "Yeah… and I'm the Queen of Jordan…"

She left the office and shut the door. Michael is now alone in his office. He goes to the filing cabinet and takes out the necessary files for his session with Victor Fries aka Mr. Freeze. He was one of his more favorite patients. He always had a pleasant scientific discourse on thermodynamics with Fries. It was a building block on creating a strong patient-doctor relationship in a way. Often, he slipped in questions on Fries' philosophy and always Fries answered back with snippets of his life. He built jigsaws with the mosaics from his patients. These tactics work. With Fries, all it takes is a nice conversation and a chess set. Michael then began reading the portfolio, the notes he had written and his notes of his former colleagues. He leaned back into his chair with a pen in his mouth.

This is the usual beginning of the day for Michael Saul.

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><p><strong>The next chapter involves the meeting. Why am I not going into the details in his treatment with patients? You saw what Saul did in the first chapter and he can be lethal if he wants to. He's a passive aggressive is a weird way. We'll come to that slowly.<br>**

**Please review as usual.**


	3. Boardroom and Trustees

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of this fanfiction with the pure exception of Michael Saul and several other characters. Characters such as Batman, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze and others belong to DC Comics and their respective creators/corporation.

**A new chapter! I really did not enjoy writing this chapter though. I felt that it was weird that Saul had to do things that seemed to not fit into his general character. I mean, you're meeting the person who you think gave the go-ahead to do things that made you angry. Ugh... I just had problems with this but, I promise, in the next few chapters, there would be something a character development or plot progression.**

**As always, I would love reviews and always, I appreciate them. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. **Please review!** Enjoy!**

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><p>The session with the Dr. Fries aka Mr. Freeze went smoothly for Michael. He was one of the easier patients for Michael to deal with as he was emotionally and psychologically subdued. He had a soft spot for Victor as Michael saw his own pains within Victor. Unfortunate circumstances turned him into a cold monster, figuratively and physiologically. Michael was the lucky one after Hannah's death. Revenge rarely crossed his mind.<p>

When Michael started treating Victor, Victor spoke of the past and how removed his current self from the old. Now, Victor was the opposite, seemingly towards his way to become "cured". Michael knew Victor was "cured". Victor was sane when Michael worked at Arkham, even before.

Michael knew personally that a broken heart can never be mended when someone that you hold so dear slipped away from your grasp. Even as Nora Fries became Lazara, the pain of the "supernatural divorce" only created wider chasms in his already icy heart. Victor was no longer bound to search for a cure for his dear Nora. He is now dedicated to mend his ways and hopefully, one day, Victor hopes that he could be reunited with Nora, either in life where they become what they once were or in death.

As they slowly carted off the "insane" doctor back to his cell, locked in chains and a straitjacket, Michael sat in the cold room that he utilized every time when he treated Victor. He penned his remaining notes on Victor's progress. He closed the file and stood from the chair, exiting the room as he could not stand the cold any longer. Wearing a thick winter's coat into a treatment room in an asylum was something most other psychiatrists did not have to contend with. He exits through the door, locked the room and hung the coat on the coat rack. Michael saw on the clock that it was ten minutes to one in the afternoon.

He was late.

Hastily, Michael walked up from basement floor, where the cold treatment room was, back up to the third floor. He was in a rush. Soon, Michael arrived at the boardroom of Arkham. As he tried to rid himself of the shivers and his heavy breathing, he quickly found his seat in the room. Every single psychiatrist in Arkham was there.

Seated at the edge of the table was Dr. Hermes Aristotle, the new resident-in-chief of Arkham. After the asylum burnt to the ground, Jeremiah Arkham became the Black Mask. Aristotle as most of his colleagues call him was a genius when it came to psychology. The night Arkham burned, the thick-rimmed glasses wearing Aristotle was safe at home with his wife, Anastasia. He was one of the few psychiatrists that came back to work at Arkham after its reconstruction. Automatically after joining back, he was given the highest post in the asylum.

Today, Aristotle was very focused with his mobile phone, a characteristic of his during meetings and patient sessions. His graying hair not only showed age and wisdom but, the improper bedside manner of his days. Michael too was trained in the same ways but, unlike the elderly Aristotle, Michael knew how to restrain himself.

Across from Michael sat other doctors. There were the usual three, who were often laughing and talking were seated at their usual place: directly across from Michael. Dr. Raymond Campbell, Dr. Elizabeth Perry and Dr. Mahmoud Ansar – they were known as the Happy Trio for their cheerful demeanor and inseparability. Then, there were the trustees. Old and wrinkly, these people are just there for the interest of their own money poured into Arkham. However, they seem to be missing one of their members today. He was usually the latest to arrive.

"Sorry, I'm late," exclaimed loudly the man who came into the boardroom. Everyone turned their head to see who it was.

He was dressed in a white coat, like the rest of the doctors in the room. His neatly trimmed hair and his sharp-looking face resembled the complexion of a high fashion model. This was Dr. Joshua Tindall, another psychiatrist. He worked regularly with the Joker and often, he was boastful about how Joker seemed to be "cured" around him.

For Michael, after having to punch and sedate the Joker last night in the cell corridors, he knew that the blonde psychiatrist was becoming indoctrinated. Most of these patients were masters of indoctrination. He saw the signs and Joshua goes through the denial and protective phases of this indoctrination.

"Michael!" cried out Joshua eerily cheerful as he sat next to Michael.

"I heard from a little birdy that you visited my Number One patient," said Joshua excitedly as he shouldered his arms across Michael.

"Joshua, it's creepy that you look too happy to be talking about that clown-faced killer," said Michael worriedly as he tried to peel Joshua's hand over his shoulder.

"Come on, Saul!" said an excited but exasperated Joshua. "You physically assaulted my patient and threatened his girlfriend."

"The guards called me in while you were away on a date or a strip club. What the hell am I supposed to do when the GUARDS called me in to help them?" replied Michael. "Also, he tried to kill me with a piece of broken tile and I told Harleen to be quiet. It was not even remotely threatening on how I said it."

A quarrel then erupted amongst the psychiatrists. Most of them sided with Michael, knowing the danger of working with that deranged man and some sided with Joshua. The trustees, isolated into a corner of the table, just sat looking perplexed and disinterested at the argument. The entire argument boiled around "Freud" this and "Zimbardo" that, flying from the mouths of these trained professionals. Meanwhile, Aristotle was still flicking his fingers on his phone, touching it as words flew across the room.

"Sorry, I'm late," said a voice of a man who entered into the boardroom.

The man stumbled into the boardroom. He was younger than most of the people in the room. The youngest was Michael. His dark black hair, combed neatly and trimmed, complimented his onyx suit. He was tall, gruff and chiseled. His well-shaven chin pierced the air around him, radiating an aura of confidence. His inviting blue eyes and his warm, welcoming smile loosened the heightened tension in the room. This man was Gotham's most eligible bachelor and its premier billionaire. This man was Bruce Wayne.

"Did I miss anything, ladies and gentlemen?" asked Bruce inquisitively.

Everyone remained silent including Michael and Joshua. Although one could theoretically hear a pin drop, the giggles from the hall, not from the patients, roared through the boardroom. The receptionists were interested with the strapping billionaire trustee chairman. Michael briskly leaned back on his chair, rolled towards the door and closed it.

"You're not late, Bruce but, you just missed a great fight, Bruce," said Aristotle sarcastically. "Tweedle-Dee and Salty Saul got prissy…"continued Aristotle as he fiddled with his phone.

The meeting began.

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><p>The meeting was typical. Time flew past over the heads of the men and women who serve in the asylum. Three hours had exactly passed since the start of the meeting. The trustees sat bored as Bruce took charge of the meeting. The trustees had to look intrigued because they knew by becoming trustee in an organization that Bruce Wayne cared about would help them become close to the billionaire.<p>

The psychiatrists sat there, at times shaking their heads in disagreement. With the exception of Michael and Aristotle, everyone seemed disagree with Bruce Wayne's proposals for improvement at the mental care facility. Dr. Ansar sat in his chair bedazzled by the notes Bruce left them with. Dr. Campbell and Perry exchanged confused looks and compared their equally confusing notes. Dr. Matthew Warrick aggressively tapped his pen on his scribbled notebook.

This was a usual boardroom meeting at Arkham.

"Everyone, thank you for your time," said Bruce as he ended the meeting. "We'll meet again next week at the same time, same place!"

The dead silence of boardroom became lively once more. Each doctor turned to their closest sitting peers, stood up from their chairs and left the boardroom. Their reserved behavior became jovial as they left the room.

Aristotle was still staring at his phone. Throughout the meeting, Aristotle toyed with the device and in the most unexpected moment, he would voice his concern. Aristotle was always distracted. As the meeting ended, Aristotle simply placed his phone into his shirt pocket and walked out, whistling a tune.

"What an odd person," exclaimed Bruce as Aristotle walked out of the door.

Michael chuckled at the remark. Bruce was still busy packing his suitcase while Michael continued to review the notes. Flipping through pages of notes, Michael marked down the essential points. Throughout the meeting, the young head trustee consistently reminded the staff that the asylum was 'hemorrhaging money' and that the number one priority of the asylum was the 'care for the mentally ill who happen to be criminal'. Ever since Arkham burned down and its subsequent reconstruction, the people no longer trusted the head honcho running the mad house. The responsibility was then laid upon the billionaire and his corporation's non-profit wing. Although Aristotle was the head psychiatrist of the asylum, it was just a mere title.

Michael stood from his seat and continued to read his notebook. As he walked through the door, Bruce spoke.

"Michael?" asked Bruce as he continued packing his briefcase. "Could I see you very briefly in your office?"

Michael stopped reading his notes and clipped the pen onto the notebook. He sighed and agreed to meet Bruce in his office. Michael ambled back to the office as Bruce walked ahead hastily through the corridor towards Michael's office. The nurses giggled as they passed the eligible bachelors and all the while, Michael continued to stare at the ground. The clean, white tiled floor was a distraction for Michael as his emotions continued to be bottled in his already fragile heart (and psyche). It was a mixture of displeasure, anxiety and bliss to be sitting next to the billionaire during the meeting. The billionaire's call for the doctor to a personal meeting only intensified these feelings.

They arrived in Michael's office. The receptionist-cum-nurse Bridget mouth was agape as they both entered the reception area. Bruce smiled flirtatiously to Bridget and Michael followed the billionaire, sulking. Bridget blushed as Bruce opened the door to Michael's office and let the doctor in. Bruce then closed the door as he followed Michael in.

"What do you want, Mr. Wayne?" asked Michael, getting straight to the point as he hung his doctor's coat on his coatrack.

"I need to talk to you about a patient," replied Bruce with a concerned demeanor. Bruce sat down on one of the two available black leather chairs that sat across the doctor's chair which was bigger and sleeker which Michael was already sitting on.

"I'm willing to deal with anyone with the pure exception of the Joker," said Michael calmly. His hands are now clasped and locked against each other, covering his mouth as his elbows rested upon the large mahogany desk that separated the two men.

"No, I need you to deal with Poison Ivy," said Bruce as he tried to muffle his chuckling.

Michael stared the table now. He grabbed a pen from his pencil holder and toyed around with it on his hand. He remained silent for a few seconds as the pen flipped and twisted between his knuckles and fingers.

"Why should I even help you, Mr. Wayne?" asked Michael in the same calm, hushed tone.

Bruce leaned forward and answered the doctor genially. "You are one of the better doctors in Arkham. I had gathered from sources close to me that you have managed to subdue Mr. Freeze and a few others from the clutches of insanity."

"You do understand that the psyche of mad men cannot be cured by just a few hugs and shrugs, right?" poised Michael this rhetorical question. "I wish I could help, Mr. Wayne. My answer is, as of now, no. I highly recommend Dr. Tindall though since he loves to get peoples' attention since he's an attention-hog."

"Why would you not take this opportune time to heal a woman who has caused havoc in Gotham?" asked Bruce taken aback by the rejection. "She has been caught for the first time in three years. Wouldn't it be good to get her back onto the path of recovery? Couldn't you agree with that sentiment of nurturing the ill Michael?"

Michael immediately stood up from his chair and walked over to the ropes that control the blinds. He closed the blinds and then, via intercom, asked his receptionist to take a thirty minute break. He then unplugged his phone and sat on his desk, now facing Bruce closer. He was now staring at the billionaire who seemed to be unfazed by Michael's scare tactic.

"Bruce, do you know what I think of you corporates telling me who to heal and what to do with my patients?" said Michael. "I think you people are afraid of us psychiatrists going back to the days of Dr. Hugo Strange's mad administration. Or, the days when Jeremiah Arkham went stark raving mad that transformed him into manipulative freak. Your managerial oversight on this issue confounds me, Mr. Wayne."

Michael stood up from the desk and went to his file cabinet. Bruce turned around to see the doctor, continuing his diatribe against the billionaire.

"Do you remember me, Mr. Wayne? I think you do. Just because I was associated with Project Crawl does not make me qualified to heal that WOMAN!" bellowed Saul. "Your corporate stooges drove my former lover mad that she killed herself. Do you remember Hannah Rosethorn? She headed that project and she loved flowers, just like that psycho. Just because Hannah loved flowers does not make me, by association, qualified to heal a woman who has issues with man's relation with the environment."

"Calm down, Dr. Saul," said Bruce, calming down the doctor who was kicking the file cabinet very hard. He got up from the chair and placed his hands on the doctor's shoulder to console the angry doctor. Michael was not crying. He seemed frustrated, distraught, lost – adjectives that could only describe the pure anger towards Bruce Wayne and his corporation.

"Michael, I remember the project and I remembered that I approved of the budget. My executives told me that we had to cut it because Hannah stole the designs and decided to sell it to a rival company," said Michael, as he continued to soothe the angry man.

"Did you ask Hannah? Did you ask me and the people who worked on the project? If your executives were so smart, why didn't they fire Thomas Collier? Everyone from Kijima to Larsson left the company after the project. Thomas stayed behind to only become your head executive at engineering."

"And of course, I recognized your efforts on Project Atlas…"

"Which blew up in my face…"

"All due to wrong calculations…"

"NO!" shouted Michael to Bruce as he turned around. He pointed his fingers and jabbed the billionaire on the chest with it. "It was sabotaged! Someone messed with the calculations and calibrations!"

"Look, Michael, the past is the past…" appealed Bruce to Michael. "I should have done more as your boss to look out for my employees…"

"That would entail with you leaving the company which I don't think Lucius wants…" joked Michael.

Bruce chuckled.

Michael shook his head and placed his head gloomily on the top of the file cabinet. "I have to apologize, Mr. Wayne," mumbled Michael as he continued to bury his face in shame on top of the file cabinet. "It's just so –"

"Look, I will deal with Collier," said Bruce assuredly, silencing Michael. He walked to the blinds and opened it once more, letting the afternoon sun's beam into the room. "I can't talk business here at the asylum but, I will look into the matter and ask your former colleagues around."

"No, you won't," said Michael dejectedly as he sat back at his chair.

Bruce poured two glasses of whiskey that sat on a movable tray, next to the blinds. The tray that whiskey bottle sat on was always in the office since Arkham reopened. It was a fixture in Aristotle's old office and it was a present from one unconventional doctor to another. Michael rubbed his brow aggressively as Bruce placed the ice cubes into the drinks. Bruce brought forth the drinks to both him and the doctor. Michael thanked him.

"I can't promise you much, Michael," said Bruce as he sat back on his chair, holding the glass of whiskey in his hand. "It's been five years after all…"

"Five long years…" said Michael sadly. Bruce clinked his glass it against Michael's stationary glass. Michael looked at Bruce, who continued to smile at the doctor, raising the glass and his brow. Michael took the glass, raised himself off the table that he was slumped on and gave a 'Cheers' to the billionaire. They quickly gulped down the whiskey. For Michael, who did not like drinking, the whiskey warmed his body and numbed his fingers. He felt calm from that. For once, he saw the humanity in Bruce Wayne other than just a corporation figurehead and a former boss. He could only nod at the now ice-filled glass, pursing his upper lip over his lower, reflecting in contemplation.

"It feels good to get that out of my chest after such a long time," joked Michael, who seemed calmer.

"Have you talked it out with a psychiatrist?" asked Bruce jokingly.

Michael only nodded as he swirled the glass of melting ice.

"Where was I?"

"Something about Poison Ivy…" replied Michael curiously.

"Right!" exclaimed the billionaire. "Well, Arkham is taking her back in after these long years and I want you to deal with her."

Michael was still looking at the glass of melting ice and he stopped the swirling. He looked at Bruce very concerned. "Aren't you worried that I might get infatuated by her pheromones or something?"

"I have your medical report from the old days while you were working for me… that you can't really smell or taste, so your body responds differently to pheromones."

"Still doesn't explain why I need to treat her… Aristotle and Tindall, they are more than equipped to deal with her… I mean, I'm dealing with low-key people and intellectuals who have gone nuts…"

"Mr. Freeze… Harley Quinn… I know your patient lists deal with people who are brilliant!"

"She flirts with men, women and plant… she's sapiosexual, pansexual – something that ends with the suffix of '-sexual' have the qualities that best describe her…"

"And your knowledge on all thing botanical, geological, xenological and zoological in impeccable…"

"I mean… a degree is a degree…" said Michael. "Besides, I am not as interested with plants like Hannah or even this patient we are discussing about."

"But you discussed thermonuclear dynamics with Dr. Fries which makes you…"

"The only well-rounded intellectual in Arkham since Hugo Strange," said Michael dejectedly. "I don't think I'm up to it though…"

"Well, do what you did with Joker if things go awry" said Bruce encouragingly.

Michael was taken aback by the statement. "What did you hear and where did you hear it from?"

Bruce casually replied, "The orderlies and guards are a reliable source." Michael could only scoff at the reply and chuckle from the accusation at hand, which was true. Michael intimidated his patients through silence or other methods that allowed him to observe them carefully, which often end violently or psychotically. Bruce not mentioning those "crimes" meant something to Michael. It was neither approval nor disapproval. It was just an acknowledgment by the man who financially controlled the hospital for the mentally ill to use unusual ways to heal the mentally ill.

"Well… do you want to take the job, Michael?" offered Bruce.

There was no other avenue. He lashed out at the man and the billionaire took the lashing calmly. The billionaire also consoled the doctor. There was this incredulity that he could even treat that psychotic woman. Michael only had one option at this point. Bruce could only promise so many things for Michael, even though he had no evidence and Bruce said it best, 'It happened five years ago'.

Michael chuckled as he stared at the glass now filled with water from its former icy form. He inhaled and let out a large sigh in front of the billionaire.

"Aren't you afraid or even remotely worried that I could become like Jeremiah or Hugo?" peeped Michael quietly. Bruce nodded 'no', smiling confidently at the doctor.

"Do I even have a choice anymore?" asked Michael, now smiling at Bruce.

"You were my first choice the whole time, Michael," replied Bruce assuredly.

Michael grabbed Bruce's glass and his to the whiskey tray. He tossed the melted water into the potted plant and filled the glasses once more with ice and whiskey. He brought the two glasses back, giving Bruce the glass and looked at Bruce. Bruce stood up and was now looking at Michael.

Michael raised his glass and so did Bruce.

"I agree to treat Poison Ivy, per your request," replied Michael.

They clinked their glasses once more and downed the whiskey as quickly as it was poured. It calmed the body and numbed the fingers when there was that tension that did not breakaway. The whiskey now reignited a fire within the two gentlemen as the whiskey warmed the body and calmed the mind.

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><p><strong>Once more, please leave reviews! I like to hear from people!<strong>


	4. Twenty Minutes

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of this fanfiction with the pure exception of Michael Saul and several other characters. Characters such as Batman, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze and others belong to DC Comics and their respective creators/corporation.

**This was perhaps one of the busiest months in my life. Not only did I have to contend with college stuff (writing an actual Political Science thesis. graduating Dec 2012 with almost 60 pages done!) and hospital visits, I wanted to get this written out. I am currently writing the next chapter that has a little action. Well, not that kind of action but, it's going to involve a certain Dark Knight.  
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**Before we get on with the fanfiction, thank you for the lovely reviews. If you have not received a reply from me, don't fret! I will get to you. More importantly, let me just give you these parting words about this chapter. This chapter is the appearance of Poison Ivy into the asylum. Yes, she's been here many times but, for Michael, it's his first encounter with the woman. I tried to write something very descriptive about Poison Ivy and I reference her appearance on the cartoons and comic books. When it comes to her as a character, her eyes plays an important role. Her power is just an element but, when she seduces men (AND women), her eyes become... well, you'll see.  
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**As usual, I did not like writing this chapter. I have never been confident of my writing. I find it difficult to just write in general. My mind works in images and dialogue. It's just hard for me.  
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**As always, I would love reviews and always, I appreciate them. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. **Please review!** Enjoy!**

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><p>A day had passed since Michael spoke with Bruce Wayne. His ears continued to ring the words, 'Poison Ivy'. He could not believe that someone so dangerous would become his patient. He read her biodata thoroughly and scrutinized her patient's reports. Keywords such as 'immune to toxins (chemical treatments)', 'seductress' and the oddest of them all, 'cured' were spread repetitiously. The reports also indicated that she was always released after her three-month compulsory confinement, thanks to the ineptitude of her former psychiatrists. Even the verdict by a judge and jury could not confine her behind solid iron bars. She often got slaps on the wrists, stints within Arkham that lasted for those three compulsory months. And, she abided to those stipulations. Her perpetual transit-like state enabled the hybrid plant-woman to shift herself either as a patient in an asylum or a havoc-wreaker in Gotham (and the world).<p>

With all that history of a patient, it seemed as though past psychiatrists only scratched the surface of her problems. It lacked many details and events from her childhood to her college career. Those little details seemed to be overlooked and for any proficient psychiatrist like Michael, those nitty-gritty details were important to form a personality profile of the patient. The reports lacked a proper character study of Pamela. As he continued to flip through the reports, Michael suddenly stumbled upon a picture, clustered messily within the file.

"How did this red-headed pipsqueak named Pamela Lillian "Lily" Isley become Poison Ivy?" thought Michael as he stared at a picture of young Pamela in a large rose garden.

Young Pamela Isley looked no older than nine in this photo. Although the photo lacked color, Michael was drawn to the young child, smiling in the garden filled with roses. Her little white floral-patterned sunhat and matching garden gown complimented that striking red hair of hers. Pamela carried a shovel and pail in each of her hand. The grin on her face was that of pure delight. She was next to her mother and father, who were towering the much younger Isley. They were as intended in such pictures – a model family. The entire family seemed so content and happy, smiling, particularly Mrs. Isley. Pamela's mother could have been mistaken as the doppelganger of the now older but, never aging Pamela. The monochromic picture made red haired individuals stand out and her tresses was as vibrant as young Pamela's. The only striking feature that both female Isley family members shared was their near-translucent pale, white skin. It made them shine in the photo. Then, there was the steely-eyed Mr. Isley. He too was smiling but, something was distracting Michael as he stared at the man. His eyes were as sharp as a falcon's. Mr. Isley's right eyelid dipped, making him seem kind and gentle. Nonetheless, his left eye was fully opened and it was very leery. That eye was an eye that most people would evade for its supposedly vindictive consequence, if one were to cross the person behind that eye. That eye read the souls of people and with that hard, cold gaze in that left eye, it could manipulate and change an entire world. Pamela had those same eyes – calculative, manipulative and cold with tinges of kindness, gentility and seduction.

He looked at the picture once more. Pamela inherited her parent's best physical features. In Michael's mind, that happy-go-lucky Pamela must have been an intelligent, pretty girl. If Michael was the same age as Pamela, he could have been one of the boys that she dated. Somehow along the way, something terrible must have happened to Pamela. As Michael leaned on the balcony of the office floor, looking down at the lobby, he wondered what could have caused such a dainty looking "pipsqueak" to become a prickly thorn in a rosebush.

Then, he looked at the first page of the file. On the cover was a large mugshot of Pamela "Poison Ivy" Isley. Like the snippet of the young Isley and her family, the monochromic police portrait gave a profile of this patient. No longer was this Pamela Isley smiling. She scowled. She was also leering intensely, perhaps trying to scare the photographer behind the lens or even the person reading this report. Her long red hair was messy and her skin was longer pale. With the monochromic photo, her skin looked grey from its actual pale green state. Michael noticed her eyes once more. It had the forlorn look. The seething anger that it displayed was hiding something deeper. A photo could speak a million words but, for now, to Michael, these two photos told only two small, contradictory stories: a story of a lost childhood and another story of the lost childhood regained through villainy and chaos.

"Lost in your ethereal reality?" questioned a man behind Michael.

The man's raspy, heavily accented voice was recognizable to Michael. "Aristotle," said Michael, still staring down from the office corridor's balcony to the lobby below. "You know that I'm taking the Ivy case, right?"

"Don't worry," assured Aristotle as he patted Michael's back. "If you die, what else do you have to lose?"

Michael chuckled half-heartedly, acknowledging his mortality in this current predicament.

Then, the sound of a siren buzzed through the lobby. The guard immediately got up from his desk and stood guard at the lobby's main entrance. Eleven other guards came out from their ground floor office and joined the lone guard. They stood at attention, six guards facing another six, examining their batons, hitting it over and over on their palms. A few nurses and doctors similarly joined Michael and Aristotle to spectate the lobby's commotion. Then, four orderlies appeared from the "Cell Wing". This must be a high-security patient and from the hubbub, Michael deduced that his patient was nearing the asylum. This was always the current occurrence when a new patient arrived.

The siren's sound stopped. The guards sucked in their guts and stood at attention. The main entrance doors slid open. The corridor where Michael observed the ritual became hushed. Heavy locksteps emanated through the halls and the sounds of rattling chains followed. From the entrance, three men in SWAT gear marched out front, guarding the front of the chained person. Another three marched behind the individual.

The woman was hauntingly beautiful. Her skin was flawless, pure opalescent with a green tinge. Her fiery red hair flailed messily. Those were the only two things Michael could see from his vantage point. The guards and the guarded prisoner were mere dots from where Michael was standing.

Then, a figure with white hair emerged from elevator on the ground floor. Michael turned to his side to only see Aristotle gone from his side. Although he could not hear the commotion below, he could tell that Aristotle surveyed at the patient intently, like a shopper looking at the wares for sale. The head of the security arrived out from another door, bearing a cane and spoke to Aristotle. Aristotle nodded and then, the head of guards led the SWAT team, the chained patient and the guards through the patients' wing door, hobbling with his cane in hand. Aristotle stood and waited for the security personnel to disappear through the door. He gave a thumbs-up to Michael who was still perched in the balcony and disappeared into the elevator.

"And it begins," Michael sighed.

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><p>Arkham's floor planning was perhaps its most notorious feature. An asylum for the criminally insane had its treatment wing placed on the same location where patients slept, ate, bathed and relieved themselves. Orderlies from the old days complained of the rabid behavior of the 'psychos' preventing them from doing their jobs right. The 'genius' engineers heeded to the calls of corporate inefficiency, building the treatment rooms in the psych-wards, all in the name of cost-reduction and worker satisfaction.<p>

As Michael walked down the corridor, going to treatment room 'C', he heard the wailing and maddening laughter of the patient-cum-inmates. In their cells, some huddled in the corner whilst others actively tried to claw anyone who got near their cell. Michael passed by treatment room 'A', near where he had to 'sedate' a crazed Joker a few nights ago. The Joker was always crazy but Michael had to show his finesse, all in the name of order and recovery. Michael saw Harley's empty cell. He quickly deduced that she was out for her therapy session. As he passed by the Joker's cell, he heard a snore and cackle. The words, "Imma' gonna get you, Saul…" crept through the Joker's mouth as he slept. It did not faze Michael as he hastened down the corridor.

A guard was stationed outside the vacant treatment room 'C'. The guard saluted Michael and in turn, Michael presented his doctor's cardkey that hung around his neck to the guard. The guard turned around and opened the locked door for Michael. The one thing Bruce Wayne had done to improve the asylum was making the room more secure with modern technology. No longer do the guards have keys. The guards simply slide their cards with the doctor's badge on a scanner and the doctor can begin his treatment with a patient. The treatment rooms became more of a safe with its solid iron doors and iron bolt locks.

The room was deathly silent. Compared to the loud, insane corridors where the echoes of mentally deficient lived, the room was quiet. All treatment rooms were soundproof with the exception of Mr. Freeze's subzero treatment room. The soundproofing of treatment rooms was one of the other new features that Bruce Wayne implemented to the formerly dysfunctional and destroyed asylum.

"Dr. Saul?" chimed the guard through an intercom. "Your patient is on her way."

As Michael sat in a chair, he heeded the call of the guard. He sat down, staring blankly at the wall. He knew that this patient was dangerous. All psychiatrists working at Arkham knew that the first encounter with the patient would always end in some form of violence. Harleen scratched his face when they first met as patient and doctor. Victor grabbed Michael by his coat and slammed him against a wall. Edward Nigma or 'The Riddler' sat in silence and ended the session by blurting riddles that Michael could solve. Edward then head-butted Michael. Danger was always around for the psychiatrists at Arkham, even when the guards are around to help restrain the patients.

Suddenly, the door unlocked. The door opened to reveal a shapely woman who looks as though as she had never aged passed her mid-twenties. She was kept inside a straitjacket and Michael knew that underneath the restraints, she was wearing a hospital gown as Michael saw the fringes of it. A few hours ago, Michael saw her flaming red hair from above. Now, he saw how she styled her locks. It was messy. Ruffled and scattered, she matched the inmates of the facility rather than the kindly picture of the child in the old photo. Michael also saw her eyes. It was a pure, piercing emerald green. But, what distracted Michael was the shape of her eyes. Her eyes spoke multitudes of sadness – and anger. What clicked in Michael's mind was that she had the same hungry, forlorn, angry and long-suffering eyes that her father had.

Michael quickly focused on writing his notes after getting a glimpse of her. He noted her physical features very carefully on his notepad. The guards then removed her straitjacket and once it was removed, the gown flowed out of the straitjacket, fitting into her shapely womanly form. As she sat down, the guards stood next to her. They seemed as though as they were trying to protect her rather than protecting Michael from her.

"Guards, you may take your leave," directed Michael as he continued to jot down notes. The guards left the room and closed the doors behind them.

Now, only Michael and Poison Ivy were left in the room. They were now together in the same space. There was nowhere to run, thanks to the heavily bolted door. There was also no one to rescue Michael if things went wrong. They were now all alone, in treatment room 'C'.

They sat in the room, in complete silence. Neither of them moved from their seat for five minutes. Michael intently observed her, placing the notepad precariously on his lap. She stared at Saul as he did the same to her. Her eyebrow moved and she began to close her eyelids partially. Her eyes sent a message that Michael read well. Her seductive eyes read, "I want you, Mr. Silent Psychiatrist!"

Michael could only look at her, disinterested and bored in his unsmiling demeanor. She was baffled by this after he sat there, staring at her for another silent thirty seconds. She reeled back and leaned on her chair, becoming bored of this psychiatrist who did not take her offering of her body. She simply sighed and tapped her lap. The room continued to be a vacuum from the outside world. She continued to tap her lap and Michael moved as much as a petrified tree. The tapping of her palm against her lap was the only sound in the entire room.

She eventually stopped tapping her lap as she felt slightly sore from the tapping. She stood up from her chair and moved around the room. She sighed and looked at the clock hanging above the door that she entered. In her mind, the clock must have stopped. It was only ten minutes and the doctor who was sitting across her has not anything. She turned her head to see him still glaring at her. She looked at the clock once more and the minute hand moved another minute.

The silence was aggravating Poison Ivy. For once, she just stood irritated as she now leaned on the wall, staring back at Michael. She wanted to rip off her gown and engage in sex with the doctor. She felt the need for a release. She needed to use this silent doctor as a pawn like all the doctors before. She started pounding her fist on the wall, still leaning on the wall staring back at the doctor. She hated him for being so silent. She hated this gown and the stone walls. She hated the doctor's earnest and human eyes. She hated his chairs and his notepad. She hated that he was as stiff as board. She hated that he was not trying to engage in any kind of conversation with her. All that hate boiled in her and she felt like breaking her thorns through the walls. Her vines could easily break the concrete walls. After all, she commanded nature with just her fingertips. The thought of escape enveloped her mind and the things she would do to this doctor. She wanted to coil this measly man in her vines. She wanted to him to beg for mercy as she squeezed the life out of him with her thorns. She wanted him to feel the constricting vines sapping away his life just as his kind took the life of nature. She wanted to do so many things…

"Time's up," chirped Michael. He grabbed his notepad and stood up. "Thank you, Poison Ivy. That was a lovely session."

"Wait…" stopped Poison Ivy. "Are we finished?"

"Well, our first twenty minutes are up."

"You did not do anything!" shouted Poison Ivy angrily.

"I did!" said Michael coolly. "I thought of what I would be cooking for dinner since you did not want to talk."

"You're supposed to ask questions and talk!" retorted Poison Ivy as the green veins above her forehead twitched.

"Well, you were silent, my dear," rebutted Michael in a stiff, affirmative tone. "I can't help people if they are mute. I'm a psychiatrist, not a mind reader."

She half-heartedly chuckled, hiding her irritation towards the psychiatrist.

"What's your name, doctor?" asked Poison Ivy inquisitively and seductively. She crept closer to Michael, walking seductively towards him.

"Michael Saul," replied Michael.

She grabbed Michael by his necktie and pushed Michael back into his chair. His notepad fell to the floor. She grabbed her chair, placed in directly in front of Michael's and knelt on it. Her bright green orbs stared into Michael's brown eyes. She was in front of Michael, nose to nose, smirking while she made her stare seductive.

"Well, Dr. Saul," said Poison Ivy, somehow charmed by his slightly respectable response. "I am very happy to meet you…"

She then blew from her mouth a gust of her 'air'. That air, her pollen as she calls it, made men and women sway easily under her influence. They become subservient as the pollen controlled their minds to follow 'nature's law' and in its immediate effect, her whim. She reeled away from the doctor, sitting normally on the chair. The grin on her face grew larger as she waited for a reaction. It was always mere seconds for men (and women) to fall under her wicked 'spell'. She sat down now, calmly, still grinning knowing that she would be let off easy from the doctor.

Michael sat there unmoved. He was again petrified in his chair. Poison Ivy grinned because this was a symptom on her hypnotic pheromones. He sat in his chair and continued to stare at the smirking woman. Ten seconds became thirty, thirty seconds became a minute and that one minute became another three. The smirk on her face became a face of desperation and despair. She was unable to seduce the silent jerk. She only knew that one other person who resisted her charm: the Batman.

"Are you done?" said Michael calmly.

"Don't you want to help me or something?" asked Poison Ivy worried that her pheromones have not taken effect.

"Um… no," sneered Michael. He picked up his notepad from the floor and stood up once more. He adjusted his tie while looking at the two way mirror. He saw her sitting in her chair, looking dejected at her failure.

"Is there anything wrong, Ms. Isley?" chirped Michael.

Suddenly, Poison Ivy stood from her chair, turned Michael around and slapped him in the face. Her face turned a pinkish-green. Her seductive smirk now became a grimace of anger. Her eyebrows flared upwards, making her angry look very visible. Michael rubbed his cheeks and stared down at the villainess, noticing her slightly shorted stature.

"Well, Ms. Isley," said Michael nonchalantly. "I hope this will not break our patient-doctor relationship."

Michael walked towards the door and opened it.

"Ms. Isley, please have a good night's rest."

He walked through the door and it closed. Alone in the room, Poison Ivy stared at herself in the two-way mirror. She grabbed the chair and threw it against the mirror. It did not break. Startled but still filled with rage, she grabbed the same chair and threw against the door that Michael exited from. She then grabbed his chair and threw it at the door in a flying fit of rage.

Two guards and three orderlies then came into the room.

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><p>It was now late at night in Arkham. The rattling from the iron bars have stopped. The wailing and maniacal laughter ceased. The last of the crazies have settled down for the night. Even the evil denizens of Gotham needed to get some sleep. The only noise that came out was from Zsasz's cell where incoherent mumbling about relieving the world from life could be heard. There was no point for orderly, guard or inmate to actually silence the crazed fool as he would just use his sharp fingernails to stab you.<p>

In Ivy's cell, she slept in her cot. Arkham had the usual charm of a prison with the better healthcare benefits. The toilets sat next to the bed which is also a sink. The one thing Wayne Industries has not done was to make Arkham the new Ritz Hotel. After all, the asylum was being paid by the state as a caretaker facility for the mentally ill prisoners of Gotham. As much as the asylum had become privatized, it was still a prison. Facilities upgraded were for the mere conveniences of the workers, not the patient. The mental care provided had improved by leaps and bounds but, the general welfare of the patients was a grey area where one can compare it to a third-world prison.

Ivy was in the middle of her slumber when she was suddenly awakened by a couple of pebbles. Somebody threw pebbles at her head as she slept and it was never wise to wake up a tired, frustrated woman. She got up and rubbed her eyes. To her surprise, a shadowed individual opened her cell door. She could not see the person as he stood in the shadows, walking away from the cell.

She walked closer to her now opened cell door. She looked to the left and right of corridor. There were no guards patrolling the area and the security cameras did not have their little indicator shining red. She quickly ran through the corridor in the direction where the shadowed individual disappeared into. As she trekked silently through the corridors, she stumbled upon an open window. Looking to her left and right, she looked out into the open world once more. She saw the beaming lights of Gotham City and that she was high above in the asylum. She raised her hands and a couple of large, sturdy vines cracked itself to the surface. The vines climbed and curled itself up to Ivy's floor and the vines slid into the asylum through the opened window.

"Hello, children," she whispered to the vines. She climbed onto it and escaped through the window. She sat on the vine and petted it as it assisted her with her descent to the ground floor.

As the vines dropped her onto solid ground, she raised her hands once more. The vines disappeared into the ground. Then, the empty ground that the vines disappeared into quaked once more. A giant purple flower that looked like a Wake Robin broke out from the quaking ground. The bulb bloomed open to reveal its purple petals and she stepped into the middle.

"One thing Dr. Saul does not know is my pollen is like a tracking device," she laughed maniacally. "Come, children! Let us seek revenge on the one called Saul!"

As she continued to laugh maniacally, the plant closed its petals and disappears to the ground.

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><p>The shadowed figure came out from the shadows once more and closed Ivy's cell door. He clicked a button on a remote device and the security cameras came back to life. Once more, the shadowed figure disappeared into the shadows.<p>

"Red," peeped Harleen's voice from her cell. "Red, are you awake?"


	5. Reports and Retribution

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of this fanfiction with the pure exception of Michael Saul and several other characters. Characters such as Batman, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze and others belong to DC Comics and their respective creators/corporation.

**Thank you for the reviews once more! Keep them coming and I always appreciate the constructive (destructive) criticism. I work well with both for some reason. Just my practice as a stand-up and working with bile and vile material...**

**Anyway, I was really inspired by your comments after your reviews from the last chapter. This chapter was written in a stroke of inspiration while I was in Singapore, all thanks to you guys who reviewed. I started writing a total of 12 pages of this in one night (on June 21st, I think) . I struggle with academic papers, ending normally writing either a single paragraph or a best four pages that repeats itself over and over again. I count my lucky stars whenever I do something like this. It's been arduous as I want my stories to have not many holes in them when it comes to characterization and narrative. I spent the last two days editing it, just to get it readable for you guys and my own sake (again, low self-esteem talking).  
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**I think this has to be one of my favorite chapters I have written. The quality is better than probably the last two chapters combined. I still have problems with dialogues (these perceptions will NEVER go away). I really loved writing this chapter. It felt different for me because I had to deal with things that was no longer confined in Arkham. You will see scenes that I saw in my head very clearly. _I would really like to be a TV writer though..._  
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**Anyway, enough of my rambling. **As always, I would love reviews and always, I appreciate them. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. **Please review!** Enjoy!**  
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><p>Michael returned to his sterile office on the third floor. He pondered Pamela's action during her session. As the old saying goes, the first meeting leaves a lasting impression. For Michael, Pamela looked like a troubled woman. The mere utterance of her real name brought out unbridled pent up anger, long hidden underneath beautiful yet broken façade. Michael was used to the abuse after working so long in the asylum. There was no use for the doctor to react violently towards the violence doled by the patients. They, the doctors, are there to facilitate the continual improvement of the patient's health, no matter the circumstances or the patient's past history. Michael followed that sacrosanct creed.<p>

Michael was still intrigued with her name and the lash back from calling her by that name. Shakespeare once wrote that 'a rose by any other name would only smell as sweet'. Why would someone as beautiful as her have a problem with a mere name? Was it the way he uttered the name? He knew her former psychiatrists did not engage Pamela with silence. They also dare not call her by her real name. He even recalled that in the reports, they called her by the name of her alter ego. Michael deduced that with these concessions offered to her, the psychiatrists thought that she would open up to her past to them. Michael knew concessions never worked as it allowed villains like her to control the therapy and the treatment.

Michael wanted to avoid that tactic. The silent treatment often worked on people who always had the soapbox. Villains like her often controlled it through their campaign of violence. The silent treatment brought Michael close to Pamela's emotional core. This opened a short window to a patient's natural state. It allowed the people in Michael's vocation to explore and evaluate their patients in their most earnest of emotions. It was unbridled and raw, suited for prodding. He hoped that with that short window, he would be to perhaps better understand a patient and provide a 'cure'. With Pamela, he saw those points of tension and calling her by her real name proved that there was more than meets the eye.

He stared at his empty notepad. On its fringes, pages of the past were torn to make way for new treasure troves of information. Like a sculptor and a piece of marble, he wondered what should he write. He stared at the blank sheets of college-ruled papers. His mind wandered as the sun began to set behind him.

"Dr. Saul," peeped in Bridget. Over her nurse's uniform, she wore a robin egg blue cardigan. "I'll be taking off now."

Michael snapped back to attention.

"Yes, Bridget," replied the distracted doctor. "Have a good day…"

The door closed behind Bridget. Once more, Michael was left alone. He leaned back on his chair. His hands cupped the back of his head as he gazed to his white, sterile ceiling. He did not feel compelled to write a report on Poison Ivy at the office. For Michael, he felt that it was an appropriate time to leave the office. He could write a proper report tomorrow.

Michael left his office and entered to the elevator, arriving at the ground floor. He punched his card at the time clock, effectively ending of his work day. Tonight, Ralph the guard sat at the guard post. He waved the burly guard goodbye, leaving lobby for the outdoors and headed downhill towards the gates of Arkham. The road outside Arkham was badly paved and the doctors with cars often complained of the amount of money they had to put into restoring their automobiles back into pristine condition. Michael did not have to contend to it. He could drive but he would rather take a public transport. It somewhat saves the environment and most of all, he did not have to continually waste his time in the outside world when he was truly busy dealing with the people who needed him most. Besides, he lived close to Gotham's efficient metro and he almost had no social life outside of work. Cars did little to excite him.

He climbs aboard the elevated metro, riding from Marlon back to Endbury. He got off the train and proceeded to walk down from the elevated platform to the ground below. There, he saw hoodlums, no older than twenty, loitering by the sidewalk. They looked young enough to be Michael's nephews and nieces. They were enjoying a cigarette, looking highly doped. Laughing and smoking, he ignored them.

"This used to be such a nice neighborhood," thought Michael, as he got closer to his apartment.

At the last corner of Michael's final turn to his apartment, he saw the park that he sees every morning: Arparo Park or as the locals call it, the Preyground. Endbury was the up-and-coming neighborhood in Gotham's redevelopment era. Hipsters once lived in the neighborhood but that changed as the hipster's wealth and naivety attracted 'barbarians' from other parts of Gotham. Crime in Endbury was uncontrollable. Break-ins frequently happened in the apartments. The hipster took these break-ins as a source of pride. However, the park became the location for Endbury's more sinister acts. The name "Preygrounds" originated from the recurring rape happening in the vicinity. The shady elms and turgid oaks that once provided shade to the children who played under its trees became a place of sadism, malice and rape. Hoodlums would stalk their victims in the park, doing onto them the worst things imaginable. Theft was the more childish crimes that happened at the Preygrounds. Rape and murder happened constantly, as was drug dealing. This forced the hipster to move away. It was a reprieve for straight-shooters like Michael but soon, the hoodlums occupied the abandoned apartments that went unrented and unwanted. Crime continued to rise.

That changed when Poison Ivy called the park her home. Preygrounds took a more literal term when victims, mainly ruffians, disappeared into the park, never to be seen again. Many resident hypothesized that vines that the villainess conjured caught hoodlums who entered the park in the night. Some say that she transformed them into plant-like thralls while others contended with the theory of her feeding the not-so-innocent trespassers to her omnivorous hybrid plant creations.

Crime stopped as she abducted people who wandered into her domain. No bodies, no names – hoodlums disappeared from the park and Endbury. Few of those brave hoodlums remained and now live at the edge of Endbury, near to the high traffic areas like the elevated metro station. As he observed at the neglected park, he saw Poison Ivy in a different light. She saw her not as a menace but a part of the community in Endbury that made a difference. What complicated Michael's already conflicted heart was that she was his patient. He wanted to praise her for her valiant crime-stopping effort but then, his mind reeled back to today's events and her villainous history.

He tried to keep those thoughts away for now. He wanted to rest for the day. He has to write the initial reports later at night. As he opened the door to his apartment, the only thing he wanted to do was to water his plant, eat his dinner and take a long shower.

Dusk dawned on Gotham as the sun continued to dip into the western horizons. Michael had done much since he returned home. He watered his prized orchid. He had eaten dinner. However, he had yet to take a shower. He could not. The water main in Endbury had been turned off due to maintenance work. He had just received a letter from the waterworks. Gotham's governmental inefficiency struck once more, thought Michael as he read the notice. His plan to cook rice for dinner fell through. He ate a sandwich instead. How did he then water his prized orchid?

He had bottles of water stored in his fridge. He boiled the water to get it to room temperature, perfect for the plant to absorb it. To ensure that his plant was not affected by the water's irregular temperature, he left it to be cooled off as he prepared his sandwich. After eating his delicious cucumber sandwich, his regular staple for dinner, he watered his prized white orchid with the cooled down water. It was bad for the poor thing but he had no other choice. The sun was nearly setting and it needed a second watering. This was the only way he could do it.

The orchid was the dearest thing for Michael. It was like Michael's child. He pruned its leaves whenever it grew too out of hand. He gave it fertilizer so that it could bloom as often as it could. In the winter, Michael had the heat turned up so that it could survive. Michael even talked to the plant.

"How are you, my little orchid?" chirped a smiling Michael to the plant.

"Guess who I spoke to today? Poison Ivy! You may know her from the news and stuff. Well, she's my patient!"

The light from Gotham's orange sunset beamed into the living room, much of its rays focused on the orchid. Michael's face was radiant, filled with joy to be back home with his beloved plant. It was the closest thing to family for Michael with his relatives living in New Zealand and other parts of the world. It was also the closest thing to Hannah for Michael. He talked to the orchid as though as Hannah was still alive.

"How was your day?" asked Michael to the plant.

The plant, being a living inanimate object, did not respond.

"I'm glad you had a wonderful day!" chirped Michael as he caressed the petals of the orchid. His fingers rubbed its rubber-like surface, admiring its slick contours and its natural color.

"I'm sorry there's no free flowing water today," said Michael sadly.

"I'll make it up to you tomorrow. I'll get some good water from France. The purest! In a bottle, of course!" chuckled Michael. As he chuckled, a single tear came out of his eye. He wiped it away, smiling at the beautiful white orchid. In his mind, it was as though Hannah was still with Michael.

After staring and conversing with his 'family member', he retreated to his bedroom. Michael's bedroom was plain. There were usual appliances – a bed, a desk, a cupboard, an electric alarm clock, a stereo and a chair. The drab room's only sight of clutter was on his desk. Strewn were stacks of bulky files, piled on top one another, covering the surface of the desk. The desk was in complete disarray with the stacking of the files but the files inside were pristine and neatly organized.

Michael flipped the switch, turning on the light in the room as Gotham turned dark. He went to his stereo and search through his box of CDs. It did not contain the regular fare of music. Michael, growing up in an intellectually stimulating house, loved to hear his father and brother play the piano. From Mozart to Rachmaninoff, Michael loved to listen to classical music. He had to thank his family for cultivating him to admire of these neatly arranged masterpieces.

"Ah! There is my Rachmaninoff Piano Sonata No. 3! Ooh! The Berlin Philharmonic!" exclaimed Michael excitedly after clearing through his entire collection. He carefully placed the disc into the disc dock and pressed play. The audio device whirred and soon, the speakers blared the melody.

Pumped and ready to start work, Michael walked to his desk, dragged his chair from underneath the desk and sat on it. Wheeling back to the desk, he clicked the dangling string to turn on the desk lamp. Searching through the color coded files strewn and stacked on the desk, he tried to search for his patient's folder. He marked Pamela's patient's file a bright laurel green as it fit the costume and the persona of the Queen of Botany. Like the patient's file at Arkham, Michael ensured that he kept a copy of a patient's details at home. He feared that there were stray observations that needed to be recorded. Michael's home files were more detailed than Arkham's. He did not set out to be like other psychiatrists, marking on their pads 'cured' and 'treatable', prescribing the odd medication that impeded any psychological healing. His home files noted down emotions, events discussed in sessions and more personably, actions done by or onto the patient. Most of Michael's Arkham files were detailed, making note of the patient's history and its correlation with their mental health. For the home file, he wanted to be the tallyman who kept the note of their deeds – good and bad.

Tonight, Michael immersed himself by writing his home personality profile about Pamela Isley. He had a tough time building a personality profile of the patient from just a single session. Psychiatrists normally held more sessions before submitting a first formal report about a patient's well-being. Arkham was not so different. After six sessions, most doctors already compiled a detailed psychological profile of their patients. It was harder for psychiatrists at Arkham to compile it as villains are weary of telling their history. Bad things often happen to them and to recall such things bring out the worst in the villains.

For Michael, the first meeting allowed him to map out a treatment process for the patient. For example, Victor Fries was an intellect that Michael could handle. However, he had much to handle after Nora Fries was diagnosed with an incurable disease. Even after his vicious transformation into Mr. Freeze, he relentlessly searched for a cure for his beloved wife. Due to his freakish nature and his lack of funds, he resorted to villainy. Bad things always happen to good people and for unfortunate people like Victor, bad things always happened to good people who became bad. Villains often misused the villain's cryogenically frozen wife as a bargaining chip. The constant freezing and thawing of her body had broken her already weakened mental state. Nora eventually recovered and subsequently divorced Victor. Victor's first session with Michael that ended with Michael being propped up against the wall by Victor. The mere mention of Nora brought out the pain and suffering faced by ever devoted husband.

In the case of Pamela Isley, it became a tricky situation for Michael. He had to find out what happened to the villainess. The profiles gathered from former Arkham doctors proved to give very little framework in creating a proper treatment process for Pamela. The lack of history and her general hesitance to speak about her problem seemed to be a hindrance towards the healing process.

Michael clicked his pen and after staring at the blank sheet of paper, he started to write out what he thought about her.

_Pamela Isley aka Poison Ivy is at this point INCURABLE. Throughout the session, she was quiet. She seemed hesitant to speak. She opted to walk around the treatment room and reacted to the 'silent treatment' violently, like most patients here at Arkham during their first session with me. She did not exhibit any strange behavior or compulsion. She was eager to leave the treatment room. At the end of the session, she was perplexed at the silence throughout the session and demanded an explanation for the silence. I can only truly say that her impatience is hindering her healing progress. As I answered her, I called her by her name, "Ms. Isley". She quickly reacted by slapping me in the face. Never have I seen such quick reflexes towards a name being called._

_Although she claimed that there was no breakthrough, there was one. I have seen that her impatient nature can be slowly altered with more frequent sessions. I hope to give these sessions the accessibility for her to express herself. In fact, her compulsive nature is the closest thing that gives me a glimpse to her real self. It showed that she was eager in a different way. All I have to do is redirect her unhealthy rage towards me. I need to create an honest and earnest atmosphere._

_I noticed psychiatrists Pamela engaged with have not probed her personal history enough. The reports from these doctors are incomplete. All I have is two pictures: her when she was ten and another was her most recent mug shot. Therefore, I must gently approach her to reveal more of her history. There must be a reason for the vicious reaction towards the utterance of her name. The tone might be an issue that could be related to her personal history. I do not know what is going on but Pamela will be a mighty interesting case study._

Michael put down his pen. This was an average length of writing Michael did every night for every patient he treated that day. He had only Pamela to work on today and he was pleased by his writing effort. There was a remarkable sense of joy when he finished writing it. He stretched his body, still sitting in his chair and let out a loud yawn. Michael felt that he was done for the night, rubbing his now reddening eyes.

Without a shower and without water, he needed to get a good night's rest. Michael tugged on the desk lamp's string, switching that lamp off. He then proceeded to walk to the wall switch and turning off the bedroom light. He stared at his alarm clock. Its glowing neon blue numbers flashed 8:45. It was earlier than the usual time Michael normally placed his head on a pillow to get to the dream world. Today, he felt somewhat tired.

As he slid into bed, his mind replayed the day's events. There was one tiny detail that Michael could not shake off. Even after writing a report, he felt uncompelled to write that into his notes as it seemed so insignificant. Why did Pamela blow a gust of air to Michael? What were her intentions in doing something juvenile? After all, he did not feel anything. He was just intrigued by the mystique of an action that she had performed. As his mind continued to think about that almost seductive action, he started going under the spell of the Sand Man.

Michael's stereo continued to play Rachmaninov's Piano Sonata No. 3 throughout the night, softly as Michael had set it.

* * *

><p>The clock struck two. The entire neighborhood of Endbury was asleep. There was the occasional car passing through the neighborhood and the multitude of cats roaming in the alleyways and in heat. The constant mewing was a normal ambience in this part of Gotham. Michael's coma-like demeanor showed that he was already accustomed to the sound.<p>

Suddenly, the ground became to quake. Michael's bed began to shake. Michael quickly woke to find that his entire bedroom was shaking. His electric alarm clock fell off the end table. The files of his desk dropped to the ground. The stereo stopped its sweet music as the power cable was tugged and unplugged from the socket by the tremors. This was a real earthquake.

Michael hastily put on his robe and ran out from his apartment. As Michael descended down the main stairwell, he joined the rest of the apartment tenants, running to the ground floor. As they reached the exit door, they scrambled to exit the quaking apartment. Michael was one of the last few people who managed to exit the apartment. As he reached the street, he noticed that tenants from other apartments. The ground shook beneath them. Families huddled together and held onto something that was not greater than two stories. The looks on people faces ranged from unafraid (like Michael) to full-on panic. Some held the car door handles for their dear life whilst others hugged the lamppost that was on the opposite side of the street, wishing that the rumbling would cease. Even the goons were acting strangely. They knelt down on their knees, turning to their deity hoping for one final reprieve for the sins.

It was pure calamity.

"Look," exclaimed a young girl who stood in front of the locked gates of the Preygrounds.

And there it was. Vines broke through the park's dense earth. The vines had large, sharp thorns and on the tip were large rosebuds. There were many vines, uncountable from Michael's vantage point and they flailed wildly. It looked as though as the mythical hydra came back to life.

Then, one of the vines darted from the park and into the street. The bud smashed many cars in its wake like a swinging mace. The people who earlier stood close to the park dispersed in fear. Michael stood awestruck by the power of the vines. The massive, pointy vine bent lampposts and turtled many cars. As it snaked around the street, Michael froze, standing in contrast to the fleeing public. He saw the vine scurrying past running innocent civilians, snaking around looking for something.

It dawned on Michael that the vines were looking for him. As the revelation hit Michael, the vine stopped. In those few seconds, the bud pointed its tip in Michael's direction. Michael saw the vine and started to run away from it. It was futile. The vine eventually raced past Michael and it coiled around Michael's legs. Trapped like a wild pig in a rope trap, the vine dragged Michael back into the park. Michael screamed for help as his body moved wildly in the air. The panicking residents of Endbury stopped running. They gawked at the now dangling Michael as he was dragged into the vine-infested park. The women screamed in horror while others were gasping in complete shock. The vines in the park continued to thrash wildly as Michael disappeared into the park. His screams, now, became whispering echoes.

The tremors ceased.

* * *

><p>"Good evening, Dr. Saul…" said a sultry, feminine voice.<p>

Michael groggily opened his eyes. His head felt light. Whilst swaying high above the Preygrounds, Michael blacked out. He felt his arms were stuck to his side, constricted by something thick and prickly. His legs had that same constricting feeling. It was neither rope nor chain. The thing coiling around his body and legs felt plant-like.

Michael realized that he was being tied against his will, against the giant elm tree that dominated the park. His eyes opened to see that he was in the Preygrounds. It was not as dark as he thought. A couple of streetlamps dimly lit the park. Bent and broken, the lampposts looked more to suit Transylvania than urban Gotham. The roots from the oak and elm trees cracked the pavements that once led joggers through a beautiful park. Concrete broke as nature sought to conquer stone.

"Hello, Saul," said that same sultry voice.

There she was, on the corner of Michael's eyes. Poison Ivy, in the flesh. She looked different. No longer confined to wearing a regulation gown, leaves of ivy covered her flesh, just as her namesake. Her hair was no longer messy as Mother Nature had restyled it to make her look alluring to human eyes. Straightened 'unnaturally', her red hair was further complimented by those hypnotic, emerald green eyes. She looked at Michael as she walked past him. Her eyes played a mischievous trick on Michael. It had the hunger and lustful look. That look just reminded the tied up psychiatrist of the woman's father. The picture from the past and the visage of the present were one of the same.

She wrapped her hands around Michael's neck. She had to tiptoe with her bare feet so she could see his face. She was now facing her tall hostage. Like earlier in the day at the treatment room, her nose almost had contact with Michael's. Stretched on her face was her evil grin. She peered at him longingly, intently, vengefully and lustfully.

"Well, Dr. Saul," said the woman wickedly. "We meet again."

"What do you want, Poison Ivy?" asked Michael, struggling against the bindings.

She pressed her nose against Michael's.

"Doctor… did you recall that I blew something in your face this afternoon?"

"Yes…"

"Well, it seemed that my pollen failed. Well, at least it had a secondary function…"

"And what would that be?"

"Let's see…" said Poison Ivy as she lifted and wrapped one of her legs against Michael's bound body. Her nose grazed his. "My pollen hypnotizes people to do my bidding."

"Well, I'm sorry that you could not make me jump through hoops," apologized Michael sarcastically.

She caught the sarcasm within the reply. Her anger was deftly hidden underneath her wicked grin, as it grew wider. She walked away from Michael, leaving him to see her from her rear.

"The second function of my pollen works like a GPS," continued Pamela seductively. "The green has many tricks."

"The green… what is talking about?" thought Michael.

"Well, Dr. Saul, I am here for one reason," squeaked a now excited Pamela.

"Revenge?" asked Michael predictably.

"Exactly!" replied Pamela, raising her right finger into the air.

At the same moment, a vine shot out from the ground next to Michael. Michael flinched for a second, seeing the vine grow taller that the elm. He knew there was no use in struggling. He needed to allay his fears and confront her about this predicament she forced him into.

"Was this the reason you came to Endbury?" screamed Michael. "You made half the residents flee in horror so you could have your revenge against me? You're better than this!"

"I think not…" mumbled Poison Ivy as her evil smirk widened.

Suddenly, she rushed up against Michael and kissed him. The psychiatrist's mind ran circles as the lips of the villainess touched his. It was messy as her tongue sloshed against his. It was neither a gentle kiss nor a passionate kiss. It was lust-filled and angry. Michael's hands made a fist as the rough kiss continued through its thirtieth second. A minute passed and as that relative time where she placed that kiss onto his lips, she backed away from him.

Swiftly, Michael felt a tingling sensation. His fingers twitched. His palms became to sweat profusely. His vision became slightly blurred. His cheeks became a blossoming red. Beads of sweat precipitated on his head. His head felt lighter. That wet, sloppy kiss had done something awful to the psychiatrist and the effects were immediate.

"Wh- what have… you… done to… me?" slurred Michael, struggling to create words out of his mouth.

"Simple," exclaimed the red-haired maniac. "I want to see you suffer, Dr. Saul."

Unable to clutch his stomach from the pain, he retorted valiantly, "I will… I will fight this…"

She lifted the psychiatrist's head by commanding one of her vines to lift it for her. She saw his weakening eyes, struggling to open. She let out a large, twisted grin. She raised her hand in front of his face. Unlike the end of the session, Michael was no longer facing a hand. As she gestured a slap in front of Michael's face, a vine violently whipped it.

Her smirk grew bigger. A vine crept along Ivy's shoulder and carried her off into the other parts of the park. His stomach knotted in pain. He was unable to stand up properly but the vines that restricted his movement tightened against his already restricted body. His legs started to shake. The torture of being tied while your legs waned away was outright painful. Michael channeled through the pain. He showed little of his suffering. Only the beads of sweat, the fading eye and the slurring speech pattern could show that he was fighting an uphill battle.

"I cannot lose… Not today…" thought Michael as the pain wretched in his body.

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><p>Thirty minutes had passed. Police, firemen and paramedics swarmed the vicinity of the park. The police erected barricades opposite the park walls. They crouched behind the barricade. Medics were stationed in Michael's apartment and the one next door, tending to the wounded. Firemen positioned themselves in front of a gate. They kneeled on the ground, holding and aiming their firehoses at the gate, just in case she was to show up there.<p>

Then, the ground rumbled once more. The ground cracked open and a chasm appeared. The squad cars and fire trucks fell into the giant, gaping hole. Vines shot out from the darkness and flailed around mercilessly. The firemen ran away as soon as the vines appeared. Police tried to subdue the vines by shooting at it. The vines whipped at their measly pistol and the frightened cops had no choice but to flee into the apartment buildings.

Ivy sat on one of the tall oak trees that dotted the Preygrounds. Vines contorted against her form. She cackled as she saw the policemen and firemen running on the street like headless chickens. She smiled at the devastation she wreaked. She had kept herself out of the limelight for a long time and she felt that man was overdue for a wake-up call from nature. Pleased with her work, the vines helped her get down from her high vantage point and down onto the ground.

Meanwhile, Michael started to feel the effect of Poison Ivy's kiss hastening within his body. His sight blurred. His left eye closed whilst his right eye remain open but weak. His right eye was now fighting a losing battle as the pavement he was staring at became blurrier. His stomach continued to loop, making his stomach muscles stretched. The muscles in his abdomen felt torn. The poisonous kiss rendered his hands and legs completely useless now. He felt no pain, just the numbness from the vines' constant constriction that hastened the poison's effect. He vomited on himself, twice during this debacle. His throat lacked moisture. It started to incapacitate the doctor's breathing. Michael also started to lose his mind. The poisonous kiss sent him back into the dark recesses of his mind. He saw Hannah in front of him. She mocked and laughed at the weakening psychiatrist. However, his hearing sustained almost no damage but, it too was weakening. The past thirty minutes, the sounds of sirens emanated through the Preyground. Even with Michael's now poor vision, he saw streaks of blue and red at the edges of the park.

Suddenly, Ivy returned from parts unknown. She walked towards Michael and lifted his wrist. She placed to fingers on it, to check whether there was a pulse.

"I'm… alive…" wheezed Saul as he coughed.

"Damn you!" yelled the villainess angrily. "Why aren't you dead?"

"I wish… I wish… I wish that I know the reason…" struggled Michael, with his breath placing heavy emphasis at the ending syllable.

Suddenly, Michael grabbed a hold of Ivy's gown. He swallowed his spit, hurting his already dry throat. As he tried to speak, no sounds came out. His mouth mimed the words he was speaking. Ivy mockingly put her ear close to Michael's mouth. Michael, in his deranged state, wanted to bite Ivy's ear. However, he could not. He only let out a weak cough.

She smiled deviously and left Michael once more. Michael's head dropped his head, crestfallen that he could no longer speak or do anything. As the images of a sneering Hannah returned, he closed his eyes, trying to fight off the effects of the poisonous kiss.

Another hour passed. The sounds of the sirens from the police cars started to die down. The fuel from the dropped cars drained away, making the police sirens softer as its vessel became empty. During that time, Poison Ivy made an appearance in front of the police, demanding frivolous things. 'Cease all deforestation activities' and 'the trial of Wayne Corporation and others for perverting nature' were among the list of things that the villainess demanded. The negotiator calmed her down, promising nothing but a dialogue between her and government officials. In his mind, he already shrugged off these unreasonable demands.

Eventually, she returned into the park and the vines thrashed wildly, guarding her to prevent any police action. She walked down the grassy path back to where Michael was held. Under the giant elm tree, Michael seemed dead. She examined his seemingly lifeless body to only find a small pulse left within his fragile state.

"I'm surprised…" exclaimed Poison Ivy. "Normally, men like you would be dead after an hour's exposure to my poisonous lips."

Struggling, Michael replied, "I'm not ordinary…"

"Why are you fighting death?" she queried.

"Your recovery… worth fighting…"

She was stunned by the doctor's enthusiastic response. Although he struggled to breath, she could see there was something within him, driving away the poison she left in him.

"You're going to be happy…" peeped Michael suddenly.

"Why?"

"I'm close…"

Finally, Poison Ivy could close another chapter. Her revenge was nearly complete. She could finally offload her rage towards this troublesome psychiatrist. He would be just another statistic in the numbers game of who was dead and alive.

"Was it worth it?" asked Michael.

"What do you mean?" retorted the perplexed villainess.

"I've lost… so much…"

"You lost something… What did you lose?" bellowed the villainess, exasperated that he had still not keeled over. "I lost my humanity! I became a freak of nature! I became Nature! What could a person as normal as you, lose?"

"My love," said Michael as a tear rolled down his eye. He struggled to lift his head up to only drop it once more.

"Love…" sneered Poison Ivy, her head turning away from Michael in disgust. "You are not even capable of it…"

"Let me drink a sip of water and I will tell you…" pleaded the suffering man.

Michael began to cough fiercely. Ivy quickly raced to the nearby drinking fountain. She grabbed a leaf from her gown and it grew big. She pressed the button on the drinking fountain and let the water flowed onto the leaf. She then quickly got back to Michael, with the water-filled leaf in hand.

"Michael," demanded the woman. "Drink this…"

He lapped the water with his tongue, weakly. Ivy smirked as he saw the man becoming a mere dog. He nodded to Ivy, gesturing that he was done drinking. He coughed a bit more, feeling the pain in his throat and lungs.

"Well, regale to me your story," said Pamela.

"I was not always a psychiatrist… I worked at Wayne Industries…"

"You weren't always a shrink?" asked the woman, suddenly inquisitive about her hostage's history.

"Project Crawl… Ivy on skyscrapers… green, eco work… my fiancé's work… failed…"

"Wh-what happened to your fiancé?" asked Poison Ivy, sitting down by Michael by his feet, toying with her fingers.

"Killed herself… someone said she stole someone's work…"

"That… that must be hard…" said the woman sympathetically.

"That bastard Collier…" mumbled Michael softly as he began to choke the air he breathed. "Just like Woodrue…"

Pamela stood up and patted his back, trying to stop the violent cough. While patting his back, she swiftly recalled her former life when Michael bastardized the person called 'Collier' and her former mentor and lover, Woodrue. She hated Woodrue and how he transformed her into this half-plant, half-woman. She used to curse his name every night as she lulled herself to sleep in the hospital after the experiments. She finally saw what Michael was seeing in her.

She saw that Michael may become a conduit for her recovery. Michael had been betrayed and he knew the feeling. In his pained state, he could not divulge anything fully. She finally saw that Michael was trying to do something to her. He was genuinely interested in treating her. She saw Michael as a mirror image of herself. They may have gone their different ways in dealing with betrayal but, Michael came out better than her, even in the face of death. And now, he was dying.

Michael could no longer lift his eyelid. He was bending forward at a dangerous angle. Michael groaned and screamed as his stomach continued to contort. Poison Ivy, who never cared for men, was worried. She saw Michael's crumpled face, fighting through the pain she put him through. Hoping to calm the man down, she ran back to the water fountain and filled out another leaf full of water. She looked at the water-filled leaf. The dim light from the streetlamp allowed her to see her reflection. Perhaps in the longest time, she saw that behind the leafy gown and the power to control nature, she was still merely a woman. As much as she fought to get that the revenge she sought, it had diminished all the qualities that made her human.

Unable to shake away the truth, she threw the leaf down to the ground, spilling the liquid content all over the ground. She stood up and saw Michael, slumping to a side. With a swish of her hand, the vines that constricted his body disappeared back into the ground. She quickly caught his body and slowly placed it on the ground. She propped him against the tree in a sitting position. His breathing became intense.

Then, Poison Ivy caressed his face. She brushed away his sweat-drenched hair and for once, she could see his face without having her rage blinding her view. His eyes were closed but she knew underneath the eyelids, it was brown. She had never held a nearly dying man in her arms. She heard Harley once mentioning how her ex-boyfriend died in her arms and the heart wrenching experience. She always saw men and women who were not on her side as scores on a sheet.

"Ms. Isley," whispered Michael. "I'm sorry if I did not treat you well…"

"Michael…" whispered back the woman.

"Don't… say… anything else…" struggled the breathless psychiatrist. "I am happy if I die today…"

"Don't… please don't say that…" she cried, struggling through these newfound emotions.

"I'm… serious…" mumbled Michael. "I am going to meet Hannah… It's so darn close…"

The villainess placed a finger on his mouth, silencing him. Michael opened his eyes to see Poison Ivy, staring at him. Although his eyes struggled, he opened it fully for perhaps one, last time. He saw her bright green emerald eyes staring back at him. This time, her eyes carried a kind and compassionate look. She stared at him for the longest time whilst Michael struggled to look at her with his already semi-paralyzed state.

"Do me a favor after I am caught," whispered Poison Ivy nicely. "Heal me."

She placed her lips on Michael once more. The kiss was tender. It was slow, not rushed. It was passionate, not forced. She held onto the limp Michael dearly for the entirety of the kiss. She wanted to make sure that for every second that she kissed him, it would make up for the hours of torture he had gone through. Tears flowed from her eyes as she continued the embrace with the physically fading psychiatrist.

She let go of Michael for a short second and licked on her tears. It tasted sweet, like nectar. Throughout her time as the transformed villainess Poison Ivy, she never had the chance to cry. The emotions she felt were anger, lust and mild happiness. She never felt a complete euphoria or sadness. She only felt the bile Woodrue injected into her, twisting her into the freak she is today. She was angry then and she is angry now. She did not feel elated, even after fornicating with her easily charmed 'playthings'. However, Michael seemed determined to heal her. She smiled as she caressed his wavy hair.

She placed her lips once more on his, ensuring that the entire antidote stored within her lips would heal Michael. She also ensured that nectar that flowed from her eyes would also make him better. She continued to embrace the man for as long as her tears could flow and her mouth could withstand being breathless.

"Poison Ivy…" mumbled a hoarse voice behind the woman.

"Batman…" said Poison Ivy instinctively as she stopped kissing the man.

"Who is that man?" asked Batman, circling the dangerous plant-woman.

"Dr. Michael Saul from Arkham," said the woman proudly. "I was trying to kill him."

"No surprise from a person like you! You're coming with me, Ivy… slow and easy…" said the Caped Crusader as they started circling around each other, ready for a duel.

"No…" said Poison Ivy, wiping the remnants of her tears from her eyes. Suddenly, vines appeared from above the tree and grabbed the plant-woman from the ground. Now, high above in the large oak tree, she directed her vines to attack the Caped Crusader. Batman reached for his utility belt and pulled out his Batarang. He chucked the Batarang towards the oncoming vines, slicing it into half.

Michael slowly opened his eyes. His eyes felt heavy and his breathing was still heavy. His sides and chest ached. His ears rang loudly. His vision was still as bad as when the poison entered into his body. He could only hear the commotion between Poison Ivy and someone who was fighting her. He saw blurry figures, jumping around and doing something that he just could not identify. After the intense battle that was inaudible to Michael, he saw a reddish-green figure moving towards him. The figure stood down. Then, a darker figure enveloped Michael and he felt the figure touched him. Michael blacked out once more.

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><p>Green meadows surround you. The grass tickles the bottom of your feet. You stared at the ground and then, you move your head up to see the horizon. Ahead are verdant forests. Outlines of trees can be seen, clipping and touching the sky. As you stare out the horizon, you see the sky. It is piecing blue, cloudless and bright. You now sit on the ground, nothing in between but your nude form and the green, rolling grass. You turn your head to see a familiar person: a long redheaded woman with striking green eyes. You stare at her for the longest time as you admire her nude form. She smiles at you. Together, you both hold hands and stare at the horizon ahead.<p>

"His eyes are opening…"

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><p><strong>Once more, please leave reviews! I like to hear from people!<strong>


	6. The Book of Joshua

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of this fanfiction with the pure exception of Michael Saul and several other characters. Characters such as Batman, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze and others belong to DC Comics and their respective creators/corporation.

**Once more, as I usually say, thank you for your reviews. Keep 'em coming. I'm like a radio station DJ except I don't take music requests and I don't endlessly blare "Call Me Maybe" every 20 minutes.  
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**It's been a few weeks. I had trouble writing this chapter (AS USUAL). And I hated writing it. I set high standards but I collapse easily under this pressure. Also, with the thesis almost at its halfway mark, writing the chapter was not a priority. Then again, I spent many days procrastinating on the computer. Writing 100-pages is not fun and it has a fiction component to it in addition to the factual sociological and political content. **

**This chapter has NOTHING to do with Poison Ivy or Dr. Saul. It has to do with this other character we met in the boardroom, Dr. Joshua Tindall. Hence, the name of the chapter: "The Book of Joshua". You will see Dr. Tindall as he is. And this is right after Saul's unfortunate run-in with Poison Ivy right outside his apartment. You'll hear of Saul's fate. And Tindall's reaction. And Tindall's life. This is a biographical chapter for Joshua but for Saul, I plan to reveal things slowly.**

**ALSO, side note, the first of the few sexual scenes. It's not too explicit and I don't go too deep into it (pardon the pun). I'm normally uncomfortable with writing it and I still am. But, as long as I'm improving some ways here, that's good, right?  
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**Anyway, enough of my rambling. ****As always, I would love reviews and always, I appreciate them. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. **Please review!** Enjoy!****  
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><p>The upper east side of Gotham City was a sight to behold. One could view the Atlantic Ocean if one bought a property by its coasts. Sun rise is perhaps one of the most beautiful sights, especially in urban Gotham. The rays from the new day's sun eked itself through the man-made crevices called roads. The soft shade of yellow grazed past buildings as the sun makes it way to the top of the sky and back down into the western mountains.<p>

On the quiet street, there is a red bricked house. Built by old masons of colonial times, the building withstood the test of time. Even as the city went through much tough times from the revolution, the depression and the recession, the red bricked house stood guard as a testament of two hundred years of history.

Inside, the house spoke a different tune. Although the outside carried the nostalgia of the old, the inside was spritely and eccentrically dressed. The furniture was eclectically chosen. The smell of mahogany dominated the stairwell whilst ultra-sleek, plastic and modern conquered the living room. An old chandelier hung above the foyer, welcoming guests to this house. But it did not fit the touch sensor lamps in the ultra-modern kitchen. The washrooms were left in the dark ends of the last century with lighting fixtures utilizing old light bulbs and mirrors unwashed and accumulating grime.

Above in the bedroom, a couple slept in their large four-poster bed in the Victorian adorned bedroom. Morning's light crept slowly into the room. The first to be awoken from slumber was the slender woman. Her body straightened, sitting on her bed. She was nude. She stretched her body and saw her mate sleeping next to her, his mouth agape. She rattled her silky auburn hair and continued to leer at the sleeping man. She gave his head a peck and left for the bathroom.

The man awoke from his slumber. He heard from his bed the flowing water from the bathroom and the rumbling water pipe hidden inside the walls. Groggily, he moved himself off his bed and to the occupied, unlocked bathroom, naked. The steam from the gurgling shower blasted past his face as he entered. He opened the divider that separated the shower and the dry part of the bathroom.

"Oh!" yelped the startled woman, showering.

"Good morning, my little alley cat…" said the man, gently caressing his wife, nuzzling her neck as water continued to trickled down their bodies. He caressed her face with one hand while the other was busy scrubbing her front, his front touching her back.

"Joshua…" replied the woman excitedly. "You're being frisky this morning."

"It's… not… only… this… morning…" replied Joshua, kissing her neck, saying those words as though he is running out of breath. "I… love… my… alley… cat…"

She cooed as his fingers brushed her breasts. His hands gently roamed her body with each touch leading to a louder moan. He sucked on her nape while ravishing her body with the soapy substance at a pace fitting the loving mate.

"Stop…"pleaded the woman. "I have to take to work… kids might think…"

"Think of what? That their teacher is a…"

"Don't say it…"

"Oh dear…" exclaimed Joshua in a falsetto, imitating a little girl. "Ms. Tindall… she is a slu-"

She turned around swiftly and passionately kissed her mate. The embrace intensified. He leaned on the walls and she straddled him. Her legs wrapped around his waist tightly as she held onto her lover's shoulders, ensuring that she would not fall off.

"Fuck the kids, Allison," whispered seductively as he began to enter his lover.

The sounds of skin slapping persisted for another fifteen minutes. Water continued to rush down from the shower head. Steam amassed, making it harder to breath for the couple. The pounding of the wall and floors ceased. The water stopped flowing. The door to the bathroom opened. Sound of smattering kisses continued to fill the house.

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><p>As the only child of Francis Tindall and Marcia (nee Livingston) Tindall, Joshua Tindall grew up as a bratty child. Francis was a high profiled attorney in Chicago, defending many criminals against the charges propped up against them. He won all of his cases. Candidly at home, Francis regaled the stories of his fight against the 'corrupt cops and city' to a young Joshua. Of course, this left a visible impact on the young man.<p>

Joshua wanted to be as great as his father, if not, greater. Joshua attended Chicago's prestigious Northwood Boys' Academy and excelled in his studies. However, close friends to Joshua would often recollect how he would often seek a hall pass during an examination, head off to the boy's toilet to purchase answers from the academy's ruffians and in due course, aced the exams.

Joshua's peers also alluded to his often boisterous, bullying persona. Described as 'competitive' and 'plain nasty', many of his peers recounted an event after he found out he was ranked second in his year. His competitive nature led him to bully the high achiever with a few other accomplices. For an entire week, the young Joshua tormented the intelligent Paul Trevors. A limerick was conjured that went 'Monday a Swirlie, Tuesday a Beating, Wednesday a Wedgie, Thursday a Kicking, Friday a day that's worst of all, Make Paul suck your balls.' When the boys went back home for the weekend, Paul Trevors hanged himself. Many speculated that the targeted bullying brought on by Joshua might have led to the untimely death. Others also speculated that his mother's single-parent status may have been another factor.

The death of Paul Trevors did not deter the overtly ambitious Joshua Tindall. As Paul Trevors left no notes about his suicide, the death went on blameless and Joshua led a guilt-free life. Graduating as a valedictorian, Joshua received many scholarships. He decided to attend Harvard University to study economics. However, during a psychology class, he found his calling. He transferred from prestigious Harvard to the equally prestigious University of Pennsylvania. At the university, he graduated _maxima cum laude_, achieving Bachelors in Psychology. He continued to get his Masters in Psychiatry and eventually, his Doctorate. Throughout this way, he continued his deceitful ways, cheating through every examination possible. Flaunting his father's power as an attorney and his 'underworld' connections, he managed to bribe every lecturer to give him those high grades in a game of intimidation and fear. He also managed to seduce a few female professors along the way.

All in the name of getting to where he is today.

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><p>Joshua parked his expensive Aston Martin in Arkham's employee parking lot. Entering the lobby with suitcase in hand, he clocked in at the guard post. The lobby had only one guard, unusual for the asylum. Knowing that something went wrong, Joshua approached the lone guard.<p>

"Hey, guard!"

The guard snorted and nodded in acknowledgement.

"Where are the rest of you guys?"

The guard looked up at Joshua and noticing the doctor, he replied, "Everyone's waiting for ya', doctor. There's a huge impromptu meeting upstairs on the third floor."

Joshua walked into the elevator. He pressed the button to get him to his destination and as the elevator doors closed, the guard flipped the bird at the doctor and Joshua waved at guard, smiling.

Joshua exited the elevator to see a huge crowd gathering outside the meeting room. He rushed through the crowd of nurses without apologizing and the nurses replied in grunt of disapproval and irritation. In the boardroom, Bridget, Dr. Michael Saul's nurse, sat in the chairman's seat. She sobbed uncontrollably, her head rested on the table supported by her arms. The doctors looked solemn and contemplative, staring at the table with some closing their eyes. In front of the boardroom stood the chief psychiatrist Dr. Hermes Aristotle and Bruce Wayne. They too were closing their eyes, their face contemplative.

"Good morning everyone," piped Joshua cheerfully.

Heads in the boardroom turned to see Joshua. Joshua was greeted with the now cold faces of the doctors, irritated by his cheerful demeanor.

"Dr. Tindall," said the heavily accented voice. "It's nice of you to join us."

"What happened?" asked Joshua, still in his cheerful expression, sitting in his usual seat. "Did someone die?"

As Bruce was about to speak, Aristotle interrupted. "Joshua… Michael is in the hospital."

"Really?" replied the doctor uncaringly. "Did he have a broken toe or something? Or did he get hit by the train"

"Stop joking around, Joshua!" roared Dr. Ansar, slamming his fist onto the hardwood table.

"It's not funny…" chimed in an equally supportive Dr. Perry.

Bruce thanked the two doctors for stepping in to maintain decorum. Joshua's smirk still did not disappear from his face. The scowls on the other doctors' faces remained. Hermes could only shake his head in embarrassment for the uncompassionate Joshua.

"Anyway," said Bruce Wayne to the now calmed room. "I will repeat what I had said earlier before we were interrupted by Dr. Tindall's lovely morning antics. Dr. Michael Saul is currently in the hospital after one of our recently admitted patients, Poison Ivy, kidnapped him last night around two in the morning. Now, I don't normally have meetings about this but this incident has highlighted a serious issue with security in the asylum."

"Would you like to fill us in Officer Thompson?" quizzed Hermes to this officer of the law.

"Yes," replied the police officer. "Last night, we estimated that around midnight, Poison Ivy escaped from Arkham using one of the windows that was opened in the emergency stairwell. Your head guard, Chief Officer Aaron Cash, said that security systems were down. Security cameras in the entire area went offline."

Then, Cash stood up from his chair.

"The earth outside in the exercise yard was disturbed," said Cash with his hoarse, raspy voice. "The soil there is normally packed. This morning, after police caught her, I ran out-"

"You mean hobbling out, right?" sneered Joshua.

"Joshua!" yelled Dr. Ansar, angrier. "Shut the fuck up!"

"As I was saying, I ran out with a few other guards who were about to enter their shift. We examined that the possible escape routes. One of the guards noticed the open window and the loose soil."

"There are a lot of security issues with the asylum," continued Officer Thompson. "Security cameras can only do so much but, the emergency exits were unguarded, under-utilized and not securely locked. We understand the need for the windows there but as a recommendation to the asylum, we already suggested with Mr. Wayne to install keypads on these emergency doors that only react to security codes and actual fire emergencies."

"Have the police already interrogated Poison Ivy about her escape?" questioned Bruce.

"Yes, we have the report here," said Officer Thompson, passing copies of the report down the table to the doctors. The nurses whispered amongst themselves, observing the commotion in the boardroom. Bridget was also given a copy of the report, being the only nurse to be able to read about the kidnapping. Her sniffles disappeared as she received the report.

"Her detailed escape is written down as dictated," said Officer Thompson.

"I have a question," piped in Dr. Ansar. "She mentioned about a shadowed figure. Have the police determined who or what that is?"

"According to her, the moonlight illuminated the floor through the narrow window high up in the walls and it was just not bright enough to see who the person is," replied Thompson.

"Yes, Ralph, who was guarding the front at the time, did not notice anyone entering or leaving the asylum," added Cash.

"It's an anomaly then?" chimed in a concerned Bruce Wayne.

"Yes, pretty much…"

"I don't see what this has to do with me!" interrupted Joshua hastily.

"You are incorrigible, Joshua," said the usually silent and patient Dr. Campbell.

"Thank you, I live to serve!" said Joshua sarcastically, rolling his hands like the royalty.

"If you are not interested, I suggest you leave, Joshua!" howled Dr. Perry.

"Yes, please…" pleaded Dr. Ansar exasperatedly.

"Well, thank you very much for this waste of time!" replied Joshua to the doctors and Bruce Wayne. He grabbed the suitcase that was placed under the table and headed to the door.

"Ladies and gentlemen, arrivederci" saluted Joshua as he ploughed through the crowd of nurses, smiling and smirking.

"He left the report on the table," said Bridget. "Should I-"

"No, just leave it," replied Aristotle, ignoring his apathetic colleague's departure.

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><p>Joshua Tindall was hired for one reason: to deal with the Joker. Gotham's number one menace gets Tindall's full attention. He had escaped many times in the past. Even Elizabeth, Raymond and Mahmoud could not stand the psychotic villain's outlandishly violent behavior and his offbeat humor. Bruce Wayne and Aristotle, in tow, also approached Michael to help rehabilitate the clown. Of course, Michael rejected the request outright at the offer. Then, Aristotle went on a nationwide search for a new psychiatrist that could handle the mettle contained within Arkham's concrete walls and its toughest inmate and patient.<p>

Joshua worked at Philadelphia as a private psychiatrist before joining Arkham. Joshua treated many patients in his clinic. Many of his former patients believed that they were 'cured' due to his 'engaging and thoughtful consultation'. He was considered a celebrity in the world of psychiatry with his reputation reaching as far as Moscow.

The rich and famous approached the doctor for help. There were two patients that Joshua loved to brag. The first was a former senator from Kentucky who had a drinking problem. The second was the current pretender Shah of Iran, Reza Pahlavi. Even in exile, Joshua claimed to have pleased the Shah that He bestowed a title upon the doctor. The title also came along with, as Joshua would normally call, 'a spiffy medal' that bore the sacred Persian lion and the sun. Brazenly, Joshua kept the medal on him, not fearing that it will be stolen.

As Joshua's reputation grew, so did his ambition. Although he did not seek public office or anything beyond his scope, he wanted to actively 'help' the world with his psychiatry. When Aristotle approached Joshua to join Arkham, Joshua declined. He wanted to actively 'change' the world, in the city where there were people and money to be made. Aristotle continued to bargain with Joshua, rejecting every offer that came his way. Then, Aristotle pulled out his trump card. He offered Joshua the highest salary possible in Arkham that was a pay-grade lower than Aristotle. In addition to that, he also offered an elusive trophy for Joshua: a chance to treat a villain. Joshua had already dealt with villains in his hometown of Philadelphia as a court prescribed psychiatrist that always ended in favorable results (villains later moved away from Chicago to Gotham, Metropolis and Keystone City that create the favorable result). Aristotle offered the chance to deal with inmate and patient number one: the Joker.

Already an enigma, the psychopath had already chased away many psychiatrists at Arkham. The ones who dealt with him either flipped out at him; quit their posts altogether; or in Dr. Harleen Quinzel's case, become his lover, joining the villain in his crusade of chaos. The 'incurable' status of the Joker intrigued the doctor. He already achieved the prestige that he wanted and Aristotle gave to him on a silver plate what he wanted: a challenge. Without batting an eyelid, Joshua accepted that on top of the condition that the Joker is his patient and he did not need to deal with anyone else.

This inflated his ego.

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><p>The afternoon sun shone through the high windows creating a yellow hue in the room. In treatment room 'A', Joshua sat in a large, comfy red lounge chair. Opposite him lied the Joker on the bright sunny yellow couch. Today, Joker's right eye was puffy and bulging slightly due to Michael Saul's participation of 'typical orderly protocol'.<p>

The treatment sessions between the two were always long. Joker loved to stall his doctors and Joshua was no different. For the last year that the Joker was left incarcerated in Arkham, Joshua employed his tactic of nodding to every response that his patients give. He also led them on to their own answers.

"Well, Joker," said Joshua. "We've been over this and it's still baffling."

"Well, sorry doc!" said the Joker. "My mind is like a vortex of anger, _confusion_, laughter and _pain_."

"Now, what did I say about trying to redirect your anger at me?"

"That it proves that I am getting to my emotional core?"

"Yes… tell me about your past…"

"My past? You obviously have never met moi!"

"You have to remember something…"

"I don't…" grumbled Joker.

"Well, why not we do some exercises?"

"I've got something better, doc."

"Hmmm?"

"Tell me about yourself. Maybe if you tell something, it might jog this crazy mind of mine."

"Well, I remember this one time I treated the Shah…"

"No, doctor, no!" exclaimed the Joker. "I mean, tell me about your life currently. Like how's home and things?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Hey, the four walls do not give good acoustics for the mind, y'know. I like to hear about the lives of others."

"You want to hear about the life of little ol' me?"

"No, I'm just a people person."

"Very well! I had a lovely time with my wife this morning."

"Ooh, fascinating! Do tell!" squealed Joker like a gossipy little teenage girl.

"We had breakfast. And when I woke up, the first thing we did was we made love."

"Really?" quizzed the Joker inquisitively and curiously whilst smiling devilishly.

"Yes."

"I never figured you'd be the type to do it in the morning. I've been with so many of you stiff-shirts that you all look the same to me."

"Well, I'm different, Joker. I'm not like Saul or Aristotle."

"Saul…" grumbled Joker, angered by the mere mention of that name. "I just don't like what he did to me two days ago. All he had to do was ask."

"That's what I said to him!"

"And poor Harley… she's under his wing…" sighed Joker.

"Yes, poor Harleen," sympathized Joshua.

"Speaking of wings, doc, I remember that when I was a little boy, a robin flew by my window in my house."

"Oh?"

"Yes! He was a cute little red-chested robin. And I remember it walked and danced on my palm, chirping away."

"This sounds like a good childhood."

"I pulled its wings apart after I nailed it to a table," giggled the Joker menacingly.

"Oh…" acknowledged Joshua as he jotted that detail of Joker's life down.

"You know… most doctors would flinch at that."

"Again, I'm unlike most doctors."

"You always say that, doc. That always puts me at ease. You're too humble for your own good."

"Thank you, Joker. Thanks for the compliment."

"I'm glad another small snippet of your life is finally captured for my notes."

"The pleasure's all mine, doc. I live to make your life easy."

"I still don't understand why they put you in here…"

"A society looks down upon those who have been rejected by the same society time and again. I'm just a product of society's malignant self-absorbed world."

"Uh-huh."

"Well, Joker, your time's up for today."

"Already, doc?"

"Yes."

"Gee, time flies very fast when you're having fun. Or having therapy."

"Just doing my job, Joker."

"Well, you have a nice day, doctor. And say 'hello' to your wife for me," said Joker as the guards who entered, placing a straitjacket on him and securing it.

"S-sure… hey, guard? Let me help you tighten it."

"Thanks, doc! You didn't have to do that," said Joker. Joshua tightened the straitjacket tightly for the Joker making the villain gasp.

"Well, it's the least I can do. We're going somewhere with this session."

"That's good to hear," said the Joker, moving about in his jacket. "All tight and snug like a bug!"

"Take care, Joker."

"Take care, doc," waved Joker as the guards half-dragged, half-escorted the psycho out from the treatment room. "Hey, Mr. Guard! I have a joke for you. Four accountants are trapped in an elevator fire and…"

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><p>It was now six in the evening. The last rays of the sun continue to dip below Sallow's industrial chimneys and grey hills. Joshua's office was located on the fourth floor on the western side of the asylum. He shared the floor with Aristotle and a few other low-key psychiatrists. Arkham's large façade cascaded a shadow over the river. The water did not shimmer like the northern side of Arkham. From Joshua's office, one could see the murky deeps of Arkham's polluted river flowing slowly into the Atlantic Ocean.<p>

On his desk, Joshua sat there silently. His laptop was flipped open and Joshua stared at it for the longest time. Although Joshua had one patient to deal with, his office was messy. Newspaper articles of the Joker hung above his office on clotheslines and on his couch and desk, books and journal articles are dog-eared beyond reproach.

As he sat there, the words to describe the day's session did not come to him. It was hard for him to write. In fact, for the entire time that he treated Joker, he came up with nothing. His reports were all distractions to the board to give him time. It frustrated the usually successful doctor but, he did not let the situation get to him. Almost all of information of Joker's past is as the villain intended: a joke. It was incomplete and misleading. Even with these therapy sessions, it brought Joshua no closer to his target. He was still stuck at the starting line and Joker was running already.

All he could do is highlight the phrase, 'fuck this' on his word processor and pasted it in repetitively. Joshua was stuck. As much as he had this perfect life, Joshua realized that taking on Arkham's number one inmate was probably a bad idea. It dawned on him that there were reasons that the psychiatrists at Arkham steered clear from taking the Joker's case. Six months in, he had his doubts. Now, a year had passed since the unconventional doctor joined the fray. Bruce Wayne and more importantly, Aristotle wanted results. They did not want a monumental breakthrough or a miracle. So far, Joshua had yet to deliver. These issues stressed Joshua and Joshua never had the word, 'stress', included in his personal dictionary.

"Fuck this," yelled the doctor in frustration. He closed his laptop and quickly placed it and a few other random files into his briefcase.

He left the asylum in a huff. He sped away from the source of his trouble in his high-powered green Aston Martin Vanquish. Heading down the hill, he headed south for downtown Gotham. He drove for a half hour to arrive at a seedy part of Gotham. Southwest Gotham had the docks. It was a place of vice. It was a playground for those who enjoyed the more carnal things in life. Drugs, prostitutes, illegal gambling – this is where you want to be if you want those things. Past six o'clock, past the legal working hours, the vice in this part of Gotham rattles itself awake.

He drove past many scantily-clad women. Many wore the 'traditional' miniskirt and a loose top, exposing their upper body wears to potential customer. Others wore a mixture of a tube top and a ragged daisy duke. Roaming around on the roads together with Joshua were pimps in their flashy Bentleys, seeing that no one harm their 'assets'. As he browsed through the streets, he found a specimen that he liked.

He found the whore enchanting. Her blue eyes shimmered under the dim street lamp. Her short, blonde pigtails created a naughty image in the mind of the stressed doctor. She wore the standard prostitute's uniform: a red tank top with a black leather miniskirt accompanied with a heeled leather boot. Joshua stopped his car and she approached to his car, turning her frown into a sultry smile.

"Good evening, daddy," said the blonde prostitute seductively, leaning forward into the car. "My name's Lila."

"Hello, Lila," greeted Joshua confidently. "My, you have pretty eyes…"

Lila blushed.

"Flattery will get you anywhere but if we're talking green…"

"How much for the works, baby?"

The prostitute's grin widened.

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><p>The street in the eastern part of Gotham was silent. It was past the bedtime of most folks in this affluent part of the city. A street lights were dimmed thanks to the rolling fog. From the south end of the road where the coastal colonial domiciles play home to the wealthiest of Gothamites, the beams from the headlight of a green Vanquish can be seen. The car was driven slowly, probably either out of consideration for the sleeping neighborhood or he has something to hide.<p>

Joshua parked his car in front of his house. As walked up the porch, he rummaged through his pockets to find a key. Realizing that it is tied to his car keys, he quickly opened the door and entered. The illuminated streetlamps shone through the window provided Joshua an unclear view of his darkened house. He crept up the stairs slowly, avoiding the creaky flights. Stealthily walking down the upper corridor to his room, he gently opened the door to his room.

There she was. Allison was sound asleep, hugging a bolster. He sneaked to where she slept, bent down to her face and planted his lips on hers. Alison woke up almost immediately.

"Hello, my alley cat," greeted Joshua to the dazed woman as he continued to smooch his wife vigorously.

"Joshua… it's eleven…"

"Yeah… I'm sorry that I'm late…" apologized the psychiatrist, continuing his embrace.

"Joshua… I'm not in the mood…" rebuffed Allison while continuing the passionate tongue fight.

"You will be," smirked Joshua seductively. His fingers traced her ample hips and found her erogenous zone. She moaned and breathed heavily as he continued to arouse her sweet spot. His palms grazed alongside her sensitive womanly bud, exciting her further. His fingers were deep within her folds. He massaged and caressed her inner walls, making her writhe in a high sexual frenzy. He sucked her erect nipples hungrily and in the intervals to catch his breath, he continues his superb examples of French lovemaking with Allison's lustful lips.

"I'm close, my love…" cried out Allison in ecstasy.

"Shall we continue where we left off in the morning then, my alley cat?" whispered Joshua seductively as he continued his foreplay with her.

She nodded yes.

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><p><strong>Once more, please leave reviews! I like when people tell me I'm wrong or right or neither.<br>**


	7. The Ward on the Sixth Floor

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of this fanfiction with the pure exception of Michael Saul and several other characters. Characters such as Batman, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze and others belong to DC Comics and their respective creators/corporation.

**Although it gets repetitive, I cannot say again, "Thank you very much for the reviews." Also, memmek10k, thank you for spotting that egregious character error. Hence, I will reassert by saying: I hated writing Joshua's chapter but he's an essential character. I will go back eventually to editing that chapter.**

**Let's move on to the present. I kinda felt alright writing this chapter. In fact, I felt happy writing it. Story progression is slow, I grant you but, I want to establish the things going on in Michael's head and also, his interactions with other characters. Two weeks have passed since Poison Ivy had taken our intrepid normal psychiatrist, Michael Saul, hostage in a park and nearly killed him. Making a remarkable recovery, you will be seeing Michael with a clear mental acuity. Sharp, sarcastic and strangely, calm. Here's you'll see a snippet of Michael's interaction with Bruce Wayne (yes, Batman is actually a minor character, it's Bruce Wayne that will be appearing more until somewhere my planned middle) and more importantly, the new head of psychiatry at Arkham, Hermes Aristotle (another OC) who I conveniently exchanged with Hugo Strange (who is incarcerated within the facility [he'll play a very important character much, much later]).  
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**I won't spoil anything more. I can promise you in the next chapter, Michael WILL deal with Ivy in the treatment room. It will not be gushing. Slow and steady. We will see things we already know from explained biographies. For me to get to the root cause of what I see is her problem, stay tuned for a while. Heck, you'll be exploring Mr. Freeze's problem with me too (Sub-Zero from BTAS explained a lot but, we need to explain his current drive towards committing crime). And Harley Quinn maybe and even, the Ventriloquist (Arnold Wesker). We'll see how much I can write and how much better I get in quality.  
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********As always, I would love reviews and always, I appreciate them. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. **Please review!** Enjoy!********

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><p>Late in the evening at Gotham Metropolitan Hospital, the bustling hospice dwindled in activity. Families, the discharged and most doctors had already left the imposing metropolitan structure playing hospital. A few hours ago, at six in the afternoon, the nurses changed shifts. Rows of lively but tired nurses traded places with the equally fresh-faced replacements.<p>

The sixth floor of the hospital was the executive ward. The floor housed regular people who were willing to pay a bit extra for comfort but mostly the rich who could afford the best. Compared to the regular overcrowded wards, the ward was beautifully lit and adorned. The soft beige lights sifted through the hallways, making its expensive-looking wallpaper appear regal in a place known for death. Comfort came at a price and while it did not smell like disinfectant, the people who are housed within these rooms are contented and relieved that they were able to live another day.

At the end of the hall was room 604. In this room laid a sleeping Michael Saul. Flowers filled the room, many from well wishers and Michael's casual acquaintances. Doctors were already concerned that after the encounter Michael had with Poison Ivy, the flowers could emotionally and mentally traumatize to the 'injured' doctor. The other concern was that Poison Ivy might exact her revenge once more with the presence of flora in the room, acting as her eyes, ears and hands. These two hypothetical concerns did not happen as the flowers stayed stationary since the days of their deliveries while Michael remained steadfast, calmly moving on as though nothing happened.

For the past two weeks, Michael Saul was confined to a room where he greeted guests who visited him. He was unconscious for two days after the attack. Nothing significant happened to the man after he came back into consciousness. He was surprised and so was his physician, Dr. Lin. This bafflingly quick recovery prompted his physician to keep him in the hospital for further observation. He had not seen the physician since he woke from his unconscious state. The nurses would accompany the psychiatrist to the treatment rooms to do a series of battery tests and yet, the doctor did not make his presence. As he slept, he was constantly wired to contraptions that measured the tiniest medical detail. Two days ago, the nurses were kind enough to remove the wires attached to his arms and head, allowing the psychiatrist to move freely in his room.

Throughout his time in the room, he watched television and tended to the flowers in the room, trimming the necrosis-ridden flowers and leaves from the bouquets, creating a more cheery atmosphere in a grey room. His elderly next-door neighbor who is also his landlord visited him and brought him his essentials - clothes, toothbrush, cellphone and more importantly, his orchid. He was very grateful to the old Madame Turner for taking care of these things. She never pried into Michael's life and they were very amicable. Every Sunday like clockwork, she often asked how his week was and about his flower before leaving for church. Occasionally, she would even bake Michael cakes and such, leaving it on his doorstep, attached with a letter. Michael would return home from Arkham late in the evening to find a basket of these baked treats and in return, he always wrote a lengthy 'thank you' letter to his elderly landlord.

Bruce Wayne also visited the admitted psychiatrist a week after the attack. For forty-five minutes, there were uncomfortable lengths of silence between the two. The two managed to have a conversation about work, often about other patients that Michael treated. Bruce also enquired whether Michael remembered anything from the event. Michael could only say the scant details and even then, Bruce seemed to sympathize with the psychiatrist.

Throughout the visit, Bruce would try to cheer up the psychiatrist with encouraging words and anecdotes. Michael was astute to Bruce's cheerful and positive exterior, feeling that the billionaire was hiding something. The man easily changed his dour, sympathized look to a more exuberant one. Whenever Michael asked the billionaire about his life, Bruce simply deflected it by reading a card from well-wishers or recollecting 'funny times' he had, shifting away from the topic at hand.

The billionaire had a mystique around him that made him seductive as a case study for Michael. For one, the psychiatrist knew of Bruce's history. He was lectured on his first day as an engineer at Wayne Industries. The head executive of his section regaled the story of when Bruce's parents were murdered in front of his very eyes when he was young. Trauma like that could not be healed in a single day or a lifetime. The fact that he managed to overcome that ordeal amazed people and psychologists. He turned a relatively wealthy domestic company into one of the world's largest global corporations and he was still going strong. His bullish corporate maneuvering coupled with his philanthropist tendencies made him a complex character. It was intriguing figures such as Bruce Wayne that made Michael approach psychiatry as a secondary profession after leaving Wayne Industries. The mind was a puzzle that Michael found affective to his scarred soul.

Ever the gentleman and philanthropist, he promised to pay Michael's hospital bill. Michael knew that Bruce did it not out of the kindness of his heart. It was an incentive to ensure that the villainess who placed Michael in his current condition would be treated. With a firm and hearty handshake, Bruce Wayne left the room, heading to his next engagement. Michael continued his days isolated from the world.

Suddenly, Michael was awoken from his slumber by knocks on the door. The door creaked open. The lights were switched on and as Michael rubbed his crusty and tired eyes, a man stood in front of his bed. Blinded by the flickering, bright lights, he could not see the person entering the room.

"Michael!" greeted the man with exuberance. His voice boomed throughout the room. His Mediterranean accent was a familiar one to Michael's ear.

"Aristotle!" greeted Michael back to the man. The head of psychiatry, Hermes Aristotle, stood before Michael. He was a stocky and short older gentleman, dressed in an aged brown three-piece suit. His short grey hair combed neatly with its fringes parted to the side, covering his balding spots. Wrinkles formed around the edges of his amber eyes but, his arms and hands were relatively free of flaps of skin and calluses, showing that he really took care of his appearance.

"I have a present for you from me and Penelope," said Aristotle excitedly. He took out a bottle of Gosling Black Seal rum hidden within his jacket. He tapped Michael shoulder, smiling as he placed the alcoholic beverage on Michael's bedside table. Then, he took out another bottle and two small glasses from his jacket and placed it on the table, next to the present. This time, it was a bottle of scotch - a Macallan 18.

"How did you sneak those in?" asked Michael flabbergasted at the presence of alcohol in his room.

"You mean you can't bring in a bottle of sunshine into the hospital?" acted Aristotle confused with his pronunciations of the words spoken wryly with wit.

"Uh… no…" said Michael assured with the fact.

"Well, you're special, Mr. First Page Headline!"

"What?" exclaimed Michael in a daze.

"Here! There's a picture of your beautiful face and hers too."

Aristotle then took out a folded piece of newspaper from the front pocket of his jacket. He unraveled the paper and showed Michael the headline from the Gotham Gazette. He then passed the piece of paper to Michael and Michael began to read aloud.

_**Poison Ivy Rearrested After Hostage Standoff at Arparo**_

_Villainess Poison Ivy was rearrested by Gotham Metropolitan Police after a standoff in Arparo Park at Endsbury. Around two o'clock in the morning, residents reported a tremor that shook the neighborhood. According to an eyewitness, vines grew out from the grounds of the abandoned park and took hold of Dr. Michael Saul, 38. The hostage situation ended around five in the morning when the vigilante Batman stepped in to rescue the man._

"_Dr. Michael Saul was a targeted hostage," said Police Commissioner James Gordon at a press conference. "The doctor was assigned to treat the person in question at Arkham Asylum."_

_Police determined that the villainess escaped from Arkham around ten o'clock to twelve o'clock with help provided by an unidentified accomplice. Guards at the criminal psychiatry facility reported that the facility did face a temporary shutdown of their cameras in the sector where she was held._

_At the moment, Poison Ivy is being held in detention at Arkham once more in solitary confinement. No known charges have been filed against Poison Ivy by the victim. Gotham DA William Rosenbaum filed a class action lawsuit against the villainess for violating 'Destruction Act of 1994'._

"I'm more amazed that the reporters had terrific shots of you in a stretcher and her being wheeled off in a paddy wagon."

"Yeah…" said Michael, distracted as he read the newspaper over and over again.

"Well?"

"'Well', what?"

"Well, aren't you going to sue?" asked Aristotle inquisitively, now sitting in a lounge chair, his left leg rested upon his right knee.

"No, when Bruce Wayne was here, I told him to let her go on this. She has enough on her plate as it is," said Michael as he refolded the newspaper. "He even offered me the best lawyers the country has to offer but, I just said 'no' to the man."

"You know, with the money, you could just fly away from that madhouse."

"I wouldn't do it, Aristotle."

"I would!" said Aristotle, gesturing to his chest. "Maybe I pay off all our existing debts. With the leftover money, I might take a vacation with Penelope… maybe visit my dad's hometown of Larissa…"

"That's nice," complimented Michael. "Besides, I wouldn't know what to do with the money."

"You'd blow it on ladies of the night anyway," sneered the gray hair man jokingly. He patted his jacket, trying to find something within its confines. As he tapped on the left side of his chest, he rummaged into the inner pocket of it and took out his box of cigarettes and a lighter.

"Hey!" exclaimed Michael in a hushed but fearful voice. "You're not supposed to smoke here…"

"Really?" said Aristotle sarcastically as he lit the cigarette in front of Michael. Aristotle inhaled the cigarette and puffed out the smoke. Michael fanned away the puff of smoke with his hand, coughing and choking at its appearance.

"I'm going to get into trouble with the nurses here, Aristotle…"

"Pfft… a woman coiled you with her unnatural 'mutant' vines, you weren't afraid. But when nurses want to make sure you that you've taken a piss in the bedpan, your penis retracts itself into your testes! You're a man, for God's sakes," said Aristotle as he continued to smoke the cigarette.

"Say, Aristotle... did you manage to talk to her about what happened when she kidnapped me?"

"Nope, she admitted that she kidnapped you and that's it. She mentioned revenge but again, because this is premeditated assault, you could sue her."

"She has NOTHING! What's the point of putting her in greater debt when she can't even adjust herself to society?" cried out Michael passionately. "An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind."

"You're right… you're right…" calmed Aristotle.

"Well, what about my other appointments?"

"Bridget moved them back to next week when you're ready."

"Freeze and Harley…?"

"All moved to next week. Poison Ivy too. I thought Bruce told you that the appointments were pushed back."

"No, he didn't," said Michael. "He must have forgotten since he's busy. Why didn't you come and visit? You could have told this personally."

"Hey, we have to work. I got off early today so I could see you," exclaimed Aristotle taken aback but excited. "In fact, Penelope wanted me to visit last week but, we… I mean, I had to review security protocols for the asylum. I'm the head of asylum after all."

"They made security tighter now?"

"Yes, workmen came two days after your admittance to the hospital. They sealed all the windows and installed bars on the windows and keypads on the most emergency doors."

"That's stupid…" irked Michael. "We're getting close to becoming a prison once more…"

"I know but it was Cash's suggestion and some fucker named Detective P. B. Thompson."

"How's Penelope anyway?"

"What? Now you're ask how my wife is doing!" said Aristotle in an irritated but joking manner. "She's fine. She's been teaching Greek to disadvantage kids lately."

"That's wonderful. No wonder the ancient Greeks were a force to be reckoned with."

"Nowadays, we have a lot of rugrats running about the house. She's taking in these kids like strays from the street."

"But that has to keep the house lively, right?"

"Lively and most importantly, fun! I get to play grandpa to these poor kids!"

"You never change, Aristotle," complimented Michael.

Aristotle blushed at the remark. He then hastily walked up to Michael's bedside and poured the scotch into the two glasses. He gave one of it to Michael while he had the other.

"Come, drink up, Michael!"

"Okay…"

"SALUT!" toasted the two men as their glasses clanged. They downed the glass of scotch as quickly as it was poured. Michael's body shivered as the warm liquid trickled down his throat. Aristotle shook his head and his body eased into his lounge chair.

Aristotle stayed by Michael's side for two more hours. They talked about work, about how the asylum could be better managed if they had more psychiatrists. They discussed about the upcoming elections that got lively with Michael sternly disagreeing with Aristotle about the tax rate and bailout. As the evening whittled away, so did the bottle of scotch. Michael drank a glass of it when they toasted to their health. From that time, Aristotle spent the evening drinking the scotch and talking with the bedridden psychiatrist with each passing conversation getting more repetitive and lewd. The trips to the bedside took a toll on Aristotle and so, because Michael was not drinking, he took the slowly emptying bottle of scotch and wedged it into the lounge chair for his accessibility. He also smoked whilst drinking his merriment and for Michael, he was surprised that the smoke from the 'death sticks' did not set off the smoke alarm or the alarms inside the nurses' heads.

"Well, I've got to get going," said Aristotle as he looked at his pocket watch. He had already spent three hours with Michael, chitchatting and drinking since six. He took both glasses and placed them into his jacket pocket. He then took the now empty bottle of scotch and hid it into his jacket.

"Michael, I'm going to put this in your luggage," said Aristotle as he placed the rum into the aforementioned clothing container. Michael begrudgingly nodded at the man. Aristotle went to the bathroom and as soon as Michael heard a flush, the older gentleman came out without the cigarette no longer hanging upon his dry lips.

"You're still going smell like smoke," chastised Michael to his elderly friend.

"Well, I bribed them to not disturb us so we could have an uninterrupted chat," replied Aristotle as he wiped his face with pieces of toilet tissue.

"No wonder I missed my eight o'clock medicine intake…" said Michael as the revelation hit him.

"Well, I'll see you this... Monday!" said the elderly psychiatrist cheerfully. "By the way, how are you getting home tomorrow?"

"I'm not sure. I might take the subway back after getting discharged. I mean, the doctor is not going to let me off that easily…"

"Well, give me a call if you need help –"

"You're too much, Aristotle," blushed Michael, embarrassed by the offer. "Please, go home and take a taxi."

"Well, good night," extended Aristotle's hand to Michael for a handshake. Michael's hand reached out and grabbed it. The elderly man then pulled closer to Michael and gave him a handshake and a bump on the body, a semi-hug men Aristotle's age would rarely do.

"Good night," whispered a muffled Michael.

Aristotle left the room shortly and a nurse came in. She wheeled in her tray of medicine and gave the medicine with a glass of water. On the tray, she took a can of Lysol and sprayed the room with it to get rid of the smoky smell. Michael downed the pill and drank the cup of water. She checked on Michael and asked if he needed anything. Michael said that he needed nothing and the nurse left with her tray as quickly as she came.

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><p>Morning dawned on urban Gotham City. Michael had just finished the last of his physical examination and now was back in his room. As Michael began packing his luggage for his trip back home, he decided to look out of the window of his room. He approached the thin glass that separated the medicated, pepped up halls he lived in and the gritty, grimy and unkind world. He saw the buildings that surround the hospital from the view of the sixth floor. The dullish grey façades faced him and so were the sides. He could only see the small patches of the blue sky from his window, obstructed by the towering, massive grey towers. The only thing he wished for was that the buildings in front of him were of a different color. The drabness of Gotham's urban skyline cannot be admired in the day and it made the city look like a pre-revolution version of Bucharest. Immobile, grey monuments to industry and greed only brought sadness to Michael's eye.<p>

"Well, everything seems to be in order," said Dr. Lin as he entered the room.

Dr. Lin was a second-generation Chinese-American. The yellowish tinge of his skin had never commanded respect when he was in school and now, dressed in a doctor's robe with a paper to say that he was a qualified doctor, he commanded an army of doctors in Gotham Metropolitan as one of the many heads of the hospital. Dr. Lin had short and straight jet-black hair and although he was limited by his medium stature, his broad shoulders and chiseled chin made him weirdly attractive as a man of his stature.

"I can be discharged today then?" asked Michael as he went back to his bed and sat on it.

The doctor takes out his spectacle and pulls a chair nearby to then sit on it. He placed the patient's sheet on the bedside table. His face turned sour and pensive.

"I'm going to be honest, Michael," said Dr. Lin. "It's a miracle that you survived that kind of assault."

"She kissed me. That's harmless, right?"

"Well, others weren't as lucky as you. Convulsions, sudden death, blood clots, legions on the face, involuntary bowel expulsion – I mean, you should know all this considering she's your patient."

"Yikes!" exclaimed Michael, feigning shock.

"Yes, 'yikes'." imitated Lin, gesturing air quotes on the exclamation. "It's as though she wanted you to suffer."

"She did say that," replied Michael contemplatively. "The details are fuzzy in the middle."

"Well, you should be happy that she's back in Arkham and now, she's tacked onto herself the additional charges of…"

"Kidnapping and attempted murder? I thought I had Mr. Wayne waive those charges to the courts in my behalf."

"Well, it's more of 'destruction of public property'. She did make an entire park her fortress for a solid five hours before Batman arrived on the scene. "She already called it home many times before coming to Arkham recently."

"Let me guess… you're still living at Endsbury?"

"Well, it's facing a park. Best property in town if you decide to ignore the gang wars and the prostitution."

"Ah…" said the doctor, half-intrigued with Michael's neighborhood. "According to the papers, it was a battle to be seen. The soil was pretty much disturbed with all those giant mutant vines of hers. The DA charged her and she pled guilty."

"Strange… she never pleads guilty to anyone. She normally spits at the judges, jury and the DA when they try to charge her with something stupid."

"A change of heart?" quizzed Lin. Michael could only shrug as a response.

"Was there a problem when I arrived here at Gotham Met?"

"Didn't the nurses fill you in? I thought those gossiping hens briefed you about your damages."

"Nope, not really…" mumbled Michael, feeling that he may have had created discomfort for the doctor.

"Well, let me look at the chart once more… paramedics report and everything's here…" replied the doctor. He took the patient's report once more that was bedside table. He donned on his glasses and started to skim through the pages. Flipping through the notes, Michael could only see the cover page of the report that contained his name, date of birth, blood type and other medical information.

"Well, paramedics said that Batman carried you out of the park with Poison Ivy in tow."

"How was she caught?"

"I'm not sure," peered Lin back at Michael. "You can ask her…"

"I'm not even sure she's going to be my patient after that fiasco…"

"Well, according to the paramedics, you were unconscious when Batman carried you out of the park. Vitals were poor. Oxygen level was a mere eighty-five percent."

"That's pretty awful."

"Yeah, you should have been ninety-two or higher. Your pulse was marginally low. You were at least breathing but you were consistently coughing. Paramedics said you were coughing up blood, phlegm, wheezing – the usual stuff. Then, as you arrived nearer to the hospital, your coughs stopped and your pulse returned to normal."

"Refresh my memory why I had to stay here for two weeks."

"Michael," said the doctor, taking out his glasses again. "You're an anomaly. When people meet Poison Ivy, they always end up always as corpses. If you believe the stories that she uses people as plant experiments, it could have been much worse."

"I couldn't be the only case so far to have survived her kiss," said the psychiatrist in absolute disbelief.

"Count your lucky stars, Michael. You are the lucky few who survived."

"Ooh, do I get a lightning bolt scar on my forehead?" replied Michael sarcastically, gesturing the shape on his forehead.

"Let's not joke around here. Liver necrosis, kidney failure, collapsed lungs, brain hemorrhages, hastened calcium depletion causing brittle bones, shrunken trachea, Stockholm syndrome and perception imbalance – you are beyond lucky," said the doctor sternly and calmly. Michael's face turned sullen, realizing that he was really lucky.

"Could this be as bad as the time Mr. Freeze met me for the first time?"

"He bashed you up against the frozen wall of a freezer. You came out with a broken arm. You returned to work the next day. That was not lucky. You had it coming. You could have severed your spine, you idiot."

"What did I do?"

"You talked about his wife."

"You need to tread on those sensitive points to know what truly hurts."

"Do I pinch you in the kidney to see whether you have kidney stones?" chuckled the doctor, perplexed with Michael's poor ethics. "What you do is just peculiar and unconventional, Michael."

"Hey, I get results, right?" shrugged the bed-ridden psychiatrist.

"Well, you are just sometimes an idiot. A good friend. But a terrifying idiot," said the doctor as he got up from his chair.

"Well, you're a good doctor. A fantastic friend and a good doctor," smiled Michael.

"You're supposed to say something negative about me and positive. Not a double positives."

"Hey, I was kept here for my own good, right?"

"At least I was under your care. Other doctors could have kept you here for months," replied Lin. Michael shivered with the image of him bed-ridden in Gotham Metropolitan Hospital for months on end.

Then, on Lin's hip, his beeper beeped noisily. He took it out and looked at its screen.

"Oh, I'm needed at emergency," said Lin.

"Get going then!" hurried Michael.

"We should grab some dinner some time after you leave," said Lin hurriedly as he wore his doctor's robe and his glasses.

"Go! Please…"

"Bye Saul!" waved the doctor to Michael for a long time. Feeling that the doctor's goodbye wave was too long, Michael took a pillow behind him and hurled it at Lin. Within second, Lin closed the door and Michael missed hitting the doctor.

"Dummy…" chuckled Michael.

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><p>With his bag in one arm and his potted plant in the other, he waited for his taxi in the grand lobby of the hospital. Dressed in a loose green t-shirt with brown slacks, Michael had looked around his surroundings, waiting for the red-uniformed valet to inform the psychiatrist that his taxi arrived. As he waited, he noticed a giant clock hanging in front of the lobby, facing the front door. Its minute hand grazed past ten while its hour hand was on five. The lobby was filled with people, as usual. It was, after all, a functioning hospital. Unlike Arkham where visitors were a rarity, Gotham Metropolitan was a hive of activity. There were tears shed in a corner but others went on merrily with their lives. Doctors engaged in lively conversations while children ran about as their parents sat in lounge chairs pondering their mortality. The cavalcade of emotions was abundant in the hospital, something that Arkham was severely missing.<p>

Arkham was sterile yet unstable. Here, there was sense of hope even in the presence of life and death. He realized that he had been the liveliest he had ever been while he was in Gotham Metropolitan. Whenever he met with Aristotle in Arkham, whether it was in the boardroom, the corridor or just the pantry, it was just a shrug and nod. Quiet exchanges of hushed words flown over the heads of two busy professionals during work. Here at Gotham Metropolitan, it seemed to have a more relaxed atmosphere. Jovial exchanges of cheers and laughter at stupid jokes filled the room when Aristotle visited. The only other time they had interactions that could compare to that was after working hours at Arkham, when the tension of their careers dissipated within an instant. Even his strained interactions with Bruce Wayne were animated at the hospital.

To Michael, Arkham was missing one important thing: humanity. He has been to Gotham Met many times in the past. Only now he started to see it in the eyes of the elderly man walking with his walker to buy cola from the vending machine or the newborn child whose eyes cannot even open to see the beauty (and ugliness) of the world. Arkham had vestiges of its evaporated humanity slowly stripped with the continuous temporary patients it contained. When he looked into the eyes of his patients, he saw nothing past them but blinding rage. Slithers of their former lives eked through during sessions, mere morsels of what was left of their humanity, leaving only husks for psychiatrists like Michael to treat and 'cure'.

After such an episode of rage by his newest patient, he realized this was why he worked at Arkham. The physical pain will always heal but the mental crevices, if not patched, will become bigger. He must see to it that those crevices get patched up or humanity itself will crumble.

"Mr. Saul, you're taxi's here for you, sir," said the valet to Michael. "We've even told him where to go."

Michael thanked the valet. Stepping out into the musty, haze-filled world, this was the first time had seen pure sunlight since he was hospitalized. He felt one with the sun and wished that he would never be trapped in a building like Gotham Met. He was relieved, disappointed and ecstatic with his stay in Gotham Met. He was relieved that he was no longer bound to the hospital's regimented lifestyle, disappointed with the dismal time he spent in there and ecstatic that there was a sense of life being breathed into a world that braved between death and life.

"Back to the grind," sighed Michael as he entered the taxi with the sunset beaming down Exeter Street.

As the taxi sped across from the foyer onto the main street, Michael was greeted by Gotham's infamous traffic. Bumper to bumper traffic has stifled the city's movement and the only thing Michael could only do was look at the traffic whilst he caressed his orchid.

"Hey, aren't you the guy who got kidnapped by Poison Ivy?" asked the taxi driver still looking at the streets, holding the steering wheel with his sweaty palms.

"Yeah…" uttered Michael embarrassed.

"Cool…" reacted the driver nonchalantly. "Hey, it's gonna take you forty minutes to get back to Endbury with this gnarly traffic ahead."

"It's cool," said the psychiatrist distracted by something that else that whirled in his mind.

He arrived an hour later at the stoop of his apartment building in Endbury, later than anticipated. He paid his driver and the taxi bolted off quickly away from Michael. Cones were laid upon the street as the street bore holes from the attack. The darkened evening meant that the unsafe side of Gotham became soulless once more as children and joggers disappeared into their houses. The street lacked the construction workers needed to cover the gaping hole on the roads. The relative calm of the Endbury, the Preygrounds in particular, was eerie to Michael. Usually, he would have heard the laughter of thugs in the area. Tonight, it was silent. He gazed at the park once more from the stoop of his apartment and as he entered the building, he felt nothing. There was no anxiety felt by Michael. Pain seemed to also not cross the psychiatrist's mind. As he carried his luggage and potted plant, he could only wonder about what happened that night when he was kidnapped by Poison Ivy. Questions surrounding her motive and what she gained. He could not care less about security but when it came to a patient's well-being, it was paramount for Michael.

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><p>Later that night, in the basement of the apartment building, Michael moved slowly through the tight, darkened room. Carrying a file in one hand and a flashlight in another, he waded through the dense and packed room. Antiques and old furniture populated the room, covered in layers of dust and musk. At the far end of the basement, there were three metal chests placed at the back-end of the wall. Painted a dark blue hue, Michael opened the chest and placed the file into it. He sat down on the ground, staring at the chest intently. The flashlight was on the ground, shining its singular beam onto the chest. Cradled by his face on his knee, peering at the chest, sighing on brief occasions.<p>

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><p><strong>Once more, please leave reviews! I like when people tell me I'm wrong or right. Improvement is the key for me and REVIEWS help.<br>**


	8. The First Session: Poison Ivy

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of this fanfiction with the pure exception of Michael Saul and several other characters. Characters such as Batman, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze and others belong to DC Comics and their respective creators/corporation.

**Greetings! I'm going to keep it short this week with this new chapter. It's been a long week for me and I can say that this was a decent chapter that I've written.  
><strong>

**So, we get to see the first session with Poison Ivy. Again, snippets of her personality and reactions to Michael will be seen here. And this is a really short chapter. We'll see Mr. Freeze in the coming chapters and Harley too. And Joshua Tindall. He'll have another chapter, all to himself. That's as much as I can divulge currently.  
><strong>

**By the way, FF doesn't allow you to format email in fiction pieces so, I had to improvise this with the email addresses in the first part of this chapter.  
><strong>

**********As always, I would love reviews and always, I appreciate them. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. **Please review!** Enjoy!**********

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><p>RE: Session 1: Poison Ivy<p>

Date: 14 July 20xx

Recipients: h-aristotle**-at-**arkham-asylum**.**net ; m-saul**-at-**arkham-asylum**.**net

Good morning gentlemen,

I hope you are well gentlemen. Michael and I had a lengthy discussion of how to proceed with the treatment of Poison Ivy and as of yesterday, I have yet to receive a proper treatment procedure listing the techniques that he might employ. Please get back to me about these treatments.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Bruce Wayne

CEO and Head Trustee of Arkham Asylum

A Subsidiary of Wayne Corporation

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><p>RE: Session 1: Poison Ivy<p>

Date: 14 July 20xx

Recipients: b-wayne**-at-**waynecorp**.**com ; h-aristotle**-at-**arkham-asylum**.**net

Good morning Mr. Wayne,

Today, we will begin the first of psychiatry sessions I have drawn up for Poison Ivy. Please understand that it will be an arduous process to find what the cause for her actions. As much as you can have the 'environment' and 'trees' as an answer, those are poor answers. Her actions towards this pro-environmentalist stance is linked with a memory. I will try my best to breach this memory but, for now, again I stress this, there is a patient confidentiality I have to live up to. I may tell you when I have a breakthrough of some sort. I am as heavily invested in helping her as much as you and your organization are. I just need time and this distance between management and treatment. Don't worry. I won't delay the process.

I implore you once more that time is required to deal with this matter.

Sincerely,

Michael Saul

Associate Resident Psychiatrist

Arkham Asylum

Ph.D. Astrobiology and Astrophysics

MBBS Psychiatry

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><p>RE: Session 1: Poison Ivy<p>

Date: 14 July 20xx

Recipients: m-saul**-at-**arkham-asylum**.**net

Hey Saul,

Don't be like Tindall.

Sincerely,

The fucker upstairs

P.S. Stop adding me as a recipient in your correspondences with Wayne. I want to get my updates of my horse betting slips, not updates on patient life. We talk of that privately here. I'm always upstairs. Tell him what he wants but not of all it. That answer you gave was fucking superfluous though. Good answer!

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><p>It was early in the afternoon at Arkham. Michael sat on a chair in treatment room 'C'. He clicked his pen in anticipation, waiting for his patient. The usually reserved doctor acted nervous today. It was the first day on the job after being violently thrashed around in front of his house. In fact, he was going to meet the person who was responsible for his hospitalization.<p>

His palm felt sweaty and so was his forehead. He dropped his pen numerous times and clicking it seemed to not calm the psychiatrist down. On his notepad, he scribbled the word, "Why", over and over again. Hovering above the words were drawings of vines and tree branches.

Last night as Michael slept, he had a vivid dream. It was not a dream but a recollection of the events that transpired in Arparo Park. He remembered the hazy details. He was hoisted high up into the air by the savage vines and was brought onto his knees by the villainess's dangerous kiss. Beyond that, he remembered nothing of that fateful night. Two days disappeared for Michael as he lay between the grasps of life and death. Even in his unconscious state, he only saw green grassy knolls and hills, a surreal world or a parallel one that had nothing but him and a redheaded woman, surrounded by nature. In fact, she looked exactly like the villainess. The fact that he could not escape her presence in his subconscious worried Michael somewhat. However, since then, he did not have that dream.

Suddenly, she entered the room with a couple of guards escorting her sides. She looked at the ground. Her sad eyes stared at the dull mauve carpet. She stumbled around groggily and her eyes focused on the floor. Her hair frizzled perhaps due to the harsh treatment of the orderlies at the cellblock. Her typically semi-curled hair was messy, befitting the women who lived in this asylum and currently facing debilitating and humiliating conditions. Remnants of the earth stuck between her toes and on her feet, as though that she did not bathe since arriving once more at the asylum. However, she smelled like fresh roses and for a woman who lived amongst flora, it was wholly appropriate and alarming at the same time.

"Thanks guys," said Michael, dismissing the guards.

As the door closed, Michael was now left alone with Poison Ivy. She stood at the entrance of the room, still looking at the ground intently. Her hands were shackled tightly as her wrists bulged from its iron prison.

"Have a seat," invited Michael, patting the chair next to him. She took her seat and lied down on the couch.

"Woah!" stopped Michael. "You don't have to lie down. Just sit down and relax."

"Wait… the other psychiatrists normally instruct me to lie down," said Poison Ivy as she propped herself upright on the couch.

"Well, I invited you to sit but, I find it weird when patients lie down to talk," said Michael. "It feels unnatural. Like talking to a corpse."

"Uh huh…" nodded the woman, now sitting on the couch.

"Well, shall we begin?" quizzed the psychiatrist.

"Yes…" she replied hesitantly.

"Well, tell me about yourself."

"You have my files, doctor."

"It's Michael. Call me Michael or Saul or whatever, just not doctor."

"Okay… well, you have my files so there's no need to talk about my past history."

"Well, the files just don't do justice unlike a first hand account. So, again, tell me about yourself."

"I am Poison Ivy, an Avatar of Mother Nature herself. Flora follow unto my command and as their protector, when harmed, I will defend them with force, as nature commands and intended," she said with the greatest muster of vitriol and a sense of omnipotence.

"That's interesting..." said Michael as he scratched his chin with his pen. "You see, that's already in my report."

"See how futile is your attempt of forming this human shell of me!" yelled Poison Ivy. "I AM THE EMBODIMENT OF NATURE HERSELF!"

"Well, Rome can't be built in a day," said Michael in a relaxed manner. "Besides, I'm not trying to do that. That's not how I do things. I have to make his mumbo-jumbo before we get on the actual treatment."

"And how long is that, doctor?"

"It really depends, my dear. It could take us forever. Or it could take us a few months to a few years depending on how cooperative you are."

"And why should I cooperate you?" sneered Poison Ivy.

"Let me remind you that you assaulted me. They already extended your sentencing to an additional six months. I did not waive any assault charges and my lawyers would like to keep you here or if at worst, put your head on the chopping block."

"You wouldn't do it, would you?"

"You can decide to either help me help you get better or help me get even with your own selfish ego."

"Okay… I'll… I'll…" stuttered Pamela. "I'll help you help me."

"Good… now…"

"But before we start, doctor…"

"Michael."

"Sorry, Saul… I need to ask you not to dwell into my time with Woodrue or my childhood."

"Why?"

"I don't trust you… yet. I want to trust you but now, I just want to talk freely about stuff. We'll see when we get there."

"I need to know more before we…" said Michael before he was stopped by the villainess once more.

"Please, just trust me. I need your trust before I can divulge anything."

"I'm trying to be impartial to not harm you."

"That's the problem… I just can't trust anyone with anything…"

"What about Harley?"

"She's a good friend and she's even introduce me to her parents but, even I have my limits with her."

"There's a certain affinity you attached yourself with her."

"It's purely platonic, doctor… I mean, Saul," replied Poison Ivy. "Besides, we may sleep together when we're out wreaking havoc in Gotham but, we're just FWBs?"

"Friends with benefits?"

"Friends who're besties…" replied Poison Ivy in disgust with Michael's response.

"Ah…" exclaimed Michael, dejected that his little joke did not quell the uneasiness felt in the room. "Well, it's been a while since you've met Harley."

"Yes…"

"You know that she's doing better, right?"

"She says good things about you."

"How do you know that?"

"Word spreads fast here, Saul. Rumors, truths, lies – all acceptable currencies here at Arkham."

"Do you know what Mr. Freeze thinks about me?"

"No," replied the villainess with precision and immediacy.

"You resent him?" said Michael with the assumption.

"Plants and ice do not mix," she said coldly.

"Salads need to be placed on ice… makes it crisp and fresh," said Michael in a jokingly. Poison Ivy just scowled at the joke. "But you have an opinion about him as a person, right?"

"Saul," said Poison Ivy confidently. "Some may cooperate like me and Harley but some of us prefer to work alone like me and Freeze. Besides, some of us have transformed to become less humans."

"Nonetheless, you have aspirations, hopes and dreams, right?"

"Yes, to see humans be submitted under nature's control for their grave injustices."

"Isn't this idea of submission a form of human desire? I mean –"

"NO! Nature has imparted her knowledge unto me so that I may be the stern warning to humans that nature is always watching. Nature has been a force within their world and we may take them away as we please. Submission is to ensure that humans do not repeat the mistakes and once they are under our control, nature will ensure that humans will be taken care of."

"Like me in the park?"

"Your laws do not mean anything to nature."

"But it means something to you, right?"

"Yes… but…"

"Fear of something. That's very human."

"I'M NO LONGER HUMAN!"

"I'm not denying that fact because we can't dismiss humanity on just that event. But, when you were at the park, you gave me to the Caped Crusader."

At the mere mention of that name, her faced turned a paler hue of green. Shocked by that, Michael saw the similar reactions when he had sessions with other villains. However, with Poison Ivy, Michael saw her hands shiver. Her eyes were turning a flushing white. The psychiatrist recognized these reactions. These were the reactions of the villains who encountered the Dark Knight: fear and anger.

"From the reports, you've never surrendered to Batman. In fact, the battle lasted for a mere fifteen minutes. In fact, you –" said Michael before he was cut off.

"Do you want me to trap you into a tree, Saul?" threatened Poison Ivy.

"Do you want me to trim the bushes and get rid of the rose garden?" replied Michael nonchalantly. "If you insist on resisting, the judges are going to happy that I recommend that I lock you up for a long time."

"I think I want to go back to my room, doctor said Poison Ivy, controlling her seething anger.

"Alright," agreed Michael.

Michael walked to the intercom and called for the guards. As he called for the guards to escort his patient back to her cell, he observed the villainess, standing at the intercom on one side while his other side faced her. She clenched her fist, placing them by her sides on the couch. She leered at the doctor with her cold, calculative eyes.

Suddenly, she sprang up from the chair and lunged at the psychiatrist. Her hand was high up in the air, heading towards Michael's head. Swiftly, without batting a lid, Michael quickly maneuvered around the lunging villainess. He sidestepped and circled her twice. Distracted by his sudden movements, he managed to nudge her body with his arms. She stumbled back onto the chair and looked at Michael in bewilderment.

"Are you alright?" asked Michael hastily as he checked on his patient. "Are you hurt?"

"What… what did you do?" mumbled Poison Ivy, shocked and breathing heavily.

"You're breathing very heavily…" said Michael with a grave face. "You need to relax."

"I tried to slap you…" mumbled the villainess, confused by the events that transpired. "And I fell… why…?"

"It's probably from the drugs they injected you with, dearie," replied Michael as he called for the guards to come quickly to take her back.

"But I was in control…"

"No," said Michael once more in a grave and hushed tone. "You're not. You need to let me help you."

He extended his hands to her. His smiling face quickly dimmed his grim outlook about her condition. She stared into his eyes once more, just like the time he was at the park as he sat down by the elm tree. Even as he suffered, his eyes were thawed her cold heart. Inviting and always glad to see you, Michael had sparkling caramel eyes, warm, welcoming but rife with a personal kind of anguish.

The guards burst into the door and grabbed the woman by the arm. She stared at the psychiatrist as he reeled back his hand to his side. His smile disappeared as the guards lifted her from the chair. As they wrapped the iron cuffs on her wrists and ankles, she looked at him and once more, Michael hid behind his file.

"We'll meet again this Friday," said Michael. "Is that alright, Poison Ivy?"

"Yes, Saul," sighed the villainess in a defeatist tone.

"Call him 'Doctor Saul'!" yelled one of the guards into her ears.

"Boys!" shouted Michael. "She's had enough for one day. Take her back to her cell and treat her good."

"Hmph!" said that guard indignantly as he and his co-workers led the villainess out of the cramped room.

"Phew…" let out Michael in relief, collapsing back into his chair like a deflated balloon.

He took out a pen from his coat pocket and clicked it. He hastily scratched several notes on his file. Jotting down his observations, Michael recalled the villainess as calmer and willing to open to certain details. Although she recoiled when Batman was mentioned, he had to dismiss it as a sensitive issue. Then, it hit him. Recollecting back earlier into their session, she brought an issue of trust and Michael seemed to circle that word over and over again with his pen.

"Trust," thought Michael. "Loyalty and trust…"

Michael sighed in relief once more and stretched his body, yawning loudly in the now empty room. He exhaled deeply and stood up from his chair. He swung his arms around, flailing lazily in directions that suited him. He cricked his neck and with a feeling of some semblance of satisfaction, he left the treatment room as the afternoon sun continued to set on Gotham.

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><p><strong>Once more, please leave reviews! I like when people tell me I'm wrong or right. Improvement is the key for me and REVIEWS help.<strong>


	9. The Griffon's Roost

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of this fanfiction with the pure exception of Michael Saul and several other characters. Characters such as Batman, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze and others belong to DC Comics and their respective creators/corporation.

**Good tidings to you and may your loins be ever fruitful. **

**Sorry for the late update of this story. I was busy going back and forth between home, work and Singapore. Now that everything is over and I get to return back to college, here's a chapter that I found a bit relaxing to write.**

**This time, there's less of the psychology. We are introduced to new people and also, we explore the histories of our good friends: Saul and Aristotle. We get to see a rare side of Saul: buzzed. For Aristotle, we're going to see something even better: a buddy and him being equally drunk off their bums. This chapter has a lot of drinking, temptations, flirtations and even anxieties. Well, just read ahead to find out.**

**With college coming up once more, I will be slowing down the writing for this story. It may be a month by month update, pretty much like this. I have a huge project that I have to finish up so, please forgive me if this story has intermittent updates.**

************As always, I would love reviews and always, I appreciate them. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. **Please review!** Enjoy!************

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><p>"A hundred and fifty milligrams of <em>Lodopin<em> for Harleen, then?" Bridget quizzed Michael who sat across her from his desk. The psychiatrist simply nodded. Glancing through his computer and the array of files flung across the table, it was nearly the end of the day for hardworking psychiatrist. The shapely nurse jotted down the prescription that Michael agreed to.

"For Fries," said Michael while typing on his computer, "Continue the _Zyprexa_ and _Cipramil_ dosages."

"Yes, Doctor Saul," acknowledging the psychiatrist. She let out a small cough.

"Are you alright, Bridget?"

"I'm fine." Bridget's cough worsened as she tried to expel the accumulation of phlegm from her throat. Michael brought his wastepaper basket to her and she spat into it. Michael quickly drew out a couple of tissues and gave them to her. She thanked the doctor as she wiped her mouth.

Michael sighed. "I'm barely back for a day and you're already sick."

"Well, I had been working at the normal wards before you came back." She lifted her arm to stifle a sneeze that did not manifest.

"It's a prison and hospice…" Michael groaned dispiritedly. "No wonder people break out of here so easily."

Bridget let out a powerful sneeze, not covering her mouth and nose. Michael quickly balked away from her and pushed the box of tissues to her direction. She blew her nose into a piece of the delicate paper, making noises that sounded more like a trumpet than a nose. Discarding the tissue paper, she tried to regain her composure.

"Bridget," Michael pleaded, "Take a few days off, please!"

"What about you, doctor?" Bridget said as she inhaled the phlegm from her nose.

"I'll be fine." Michael walked over to Bridget and lifted her up from the chair. As he escorted out of his office, he said, "I can do this on my own. You need to get some rest."

"But –"

"If you want to really help me, you let me handle it for a few days. I'll even ask Aristotle to assign me a temporary nurse to come and help me. Just go home and rest, Bridget."

In the reception hall of his office, he took Bridget's coat that hung on a coatrack and draped it over her body. He grabbed her handbag underneath the nursing counter and handed it to her. He patted her back and sent her off.

"Go wait in the lobby and wait for a taxi. I'm going to call for one and I'll tell one of the guards to escort you."

"Thanks, doctor."

Michael shooed the nurse away, watching her from afar as she entered the elevator. He closed the door of his office and used the phone on the nursing station to call a cab. Then, he called the guards at the lobby to help escort the ailing nurse when the cab approached the asylum.

Michael has had a handful of things today. Bridget falling ill was a curveball for the psychiatrist after coming back from a long absence. Two weeks away from work was not a vacation for a psychiatrist like Michael. The two weeks he was stuck in a hospital bedroom were hellish. The regimented lifestyle of hospital never suited the man who improvised a majority of his life's decision. His reasons for not becoming a regular doctor in a regular hospital can be explained by that lifestyle. He led his life without a compass; and with regulatory bodies restricting a doctor's movement at every step, Michael would have been at the mercy of the hospital than his patient. Psychiatry was also not a land of free reign and authority but, in a prison psychiatric hospital, especially Arkham, he could get away with the standard operating procedures normal doctors had to contend with.

He reentered his office once more and sat behind his desk. As he flipped through his notes, he looked at the notes for his patient for the day: Poison Ivy. Pamela, his name for her in his files, was apprehensive of the doctor's actions today. Michael recognized traits he had seen in other patients. She was confused by the reasons she had to be confined within Arkham. She was also angry that she could not leave whenever she wanted. She was also afraid of the things the guards and orderlies would do to her. Being a woman, even a strong-willed one like her, masculine domination was something she had faced many times. Even with the control of nature at her fingertips, she knew the cruelty of man.

Today, how Michael treated her would only reaffirm her stance on this. Michael knew that his brazen tactic, a tactic of being confrontational was not working. He knew that if he continued that kind of passive aggressive strategy to treat the villainess, he risked becoming a repeat victim to her whim – if she got out, if she escaped, if she got close to him.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. The door creaked open and in entered his boss and good friend, Aristotle. The crusty old man, usually dressed in the weirdest and oddest fashion, was wearing a tuxedo. His black bowtie was puffy, matching the size of the man's Adam's apple. Pressed and neatly creased, it was bizarre for Michael to be seeing his colleague dressed ever so formally.

"Hey, how do I look?" paraded the elderly man, gaily in front of Michael.

"You're not a woman, last I checked." The psychiatrist continued scribbling on parchments of paper, piling them on top of each other.

"Boo hoo hoo," mocked Aristotle. "What do you have going on there?"

"Notes about Poison Ivy," replied the psychiatrist, focused on the dimly lit screen.

"Well, have I got something fun in stall for us?"

"Not interested unless you're going to give me a temporary nurse to replace Bridget."

"What happened?"

"She's having the flu and I hope she takes the day off tomorrow."

"Oh…" exclaimed Aristotle. "Listen, Saul, the trustees are having a dinner at the Griffon's Roost."

"Bring Penelope. I've got a lot work I need to catch up with."

"You had two patients today. One of them cut the session short and now, you have a free evening after what was supposedly a very busy day for a man who just got out of the fucking hospital."

"I have this backlog of paper work," gestured Michael at his file to his elderly boss. "Besides, they're all hoity-toity and you know how I am when I am around those people."

"And this is coming from a guy who listens to old vinyl records and opera." He adjusted his coat. "You are THE definition of pretentious."

"At least I hide it."

"Well, I need the company. You can at least relate to these old fuddy-duddies."

"I'm supposed to act like some kind of Old Boy from some grand boarding school that daddy trust fund paid for? No thanks," snarled Michael, still writing and not distracted by the chatter. "I'm not even like these people."

"Look, the trustees are the most important people here at the asylum. They pay part of your salary and mine. The government endows only so much to private prisons like ours. All I need is someone to accompany me who will wine, whine and dine."

"What about Ansar, Perry or Tindall?"

"Tindall left hours ago. Lizzie is busy and Ansar is up in the air at the moment, heading to a conference at Keystone City."

Michael stopped writing. He rubbed his brow, looking at his paper work and his calendar. His fingers folded and lengthened, counting something abstract within his head.

Do you have any other reason that'll convince me to follow you?"

Aristotle lifted his index finger and said, "One word: jazz standard!"

"That's two words," replied Michael in a jokingly exasperated manner.

"Well?" piped Aristotle suddenly.

"How can I go without a tux?" asked Michael as he stood up from his desk.

"You're wearing a coat and a tie already. It's sufficient."

"But –"

Before Michael could finish, Aristotle grabbed a hold of one of the psychiatrist's arm and led the man out from his desk to the door.

"Come on, we're late…" grumbled Aristotle. Michael struggled, managing to switch of the lights of his office and picking up his briefcase that was placed by the door.

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><p>The Griffon's Roost was an old Gotham establishment located high up in Watterson Towers. The room was decorated in a classy manner, harkening back to the days where art-deco was the in-thing for a generation of people. Along its walls were framed pictures of the rich and famous. One could not neglect these portraits of the faces of Gotham's swinging days. Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Hugh Hefner, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Humphrey Boggart – these were just some of the people who have claimed the walls of Griffon's Roost.<p>

Tucked away from the lounge were the private rooms. Back in the twenties, the room played host to the toughest gangsters in Gotham and the United States. Assassinations, brawls and the gaudy lifestyle all happened within these obscene looking rooms. Although the outside, the lounge restaurant, had these images of the rich and famous plastered on its walls, these private rooms looked more refine. Smelling of smoke and gin, these private rooms were lavishly decorated. The leather furniture and mounted animals head upon mahogany walls did not match the art-deco rooms outside. The rooms were more suitable for a meeting with the mafia than Gotham's upper crust. Thus, the apt name of this room: the Warthog's Lair.

Seated around Michael were a drunken cast of characters, all from Gotham's high society. These were names that Michael was familiar with as his beloved, now deceased, Hannah's family was part of that circle. He recognized Aurelia Taylor and Gareth Rockford, the two people who always attended the asylum's Monday morning meetings. Sitting left next to the two old bats were Henry Smythe, James Harlowe and Derrick Bisquine, of Smythe, Harlowe and Bisquine Law. These three often represented the seediest people in Arkham. In fact, Harlowe was the lawyer that represented Michael's patient, Pamela Isley and many other inmates from Arkham and Blackgate. Placed opposite the mustachioed gentlemen were John Finchley Harris and Viola Parkhurst, two of Gotham's most renowned bankers from Gotham First. These two often invested their money into restoring Arkham's landmark. The very room that Michael sat in was restored thanks to their valuable patronage of preserving Gotham's Golden Age. They also took charge of rebuilding Arkham's nostalgic façade but due to the timely intervention of Bruce Wayne, the insides lent a more modern look, which elevated the "security" and "comfort" of the facility. Michael knew that this was all tripe spewed by the laziest person who sat next to the two financiers: Redmond Rochester IV. He was the head of an advertising and public relations firm who secured the construction and concept work of rebuilding Arkham.

Next to Aristotle was perhaps the only person that Michael could relate to. Drunkenly as the two men sloshed down another scotch down their throats, Arthur Rowan Brooks laughed merrily with his drinking compatriot. Brooks was a former Senator for the state of Gotham. The bearded man, now a retired statesman, once ran for Governor but failed when his wife, Amelia, was killed by criminals. Despondent, the congressman dropped out of the race and politics. He devoted the rest of his life towards fundraising programs that aim to rehabilitate criminals.

"You wanna know something, b-Bub-b-buddy," said Arthur drunkenly, nearly tripping over a carpet to get to Michael. "You are really quiet tonight."

"I'm sorry if I'm not lively tonight."

"D-d-d-don't be sorry. Here's twenty d-d-d-dollars and go and get yourself a drink. And a Foster Brooks for me. That's a sc-sc-sc-scotch, brandy, scotch, watermelon and cranberry juice. Did I mention scotch? Well, if I did not get that, get it for me. If they don't have them, get me a Joe Gilmore."

"Sure, Senator," said Michael as the senator clasped the money in Michael's hand.

It was not the face of Hamilton that he saw but Franklin. Seeing the tipsy senator, laughing jollily with his friends, Michael knew what to do with the money. He left the room and walked up to the bar. As he sat on the barstool, he saw that up on a stage in the restaurant, a jazz band called 'The Swinging Five and Bonnie Raven' played a jazz standard. As he scoped throughout the room, he saw most of the people were disinterested with the music and were more engaged with their conversations.

"Hey, what'll you have?" asked the bartender from behind the counter.

"I'll have a Foster Brooks and a carafe of wine, please."

"We don't sell Foster Brooks here. In fact, I think that drink does not even exist."

"A Joe Gilmore, then."

"Coming right up!"

Sitting at the bar, in a place he did not want to come infuriated the psychiatrist. He knew of the Griffon's Roost very well. It was a place where one did business and their sordid affairs. The music was something to be admired but, it was a white noise to the transactions of words taking place.

"And now, we are going to play for you my favorite song, Frank Sinatra's 'That's Life'." The woman on the stage gestured to the band behind her. In an instant, sounds from the drum and the electric piano rattled the room.

"_That's life_," she sang. "_That's what all the people say…_"

Her raspy yet melodious voice roused Michael's ears. Her voice ringed strong conviction of failures long passed that Michael felt as though the great Sinatra, although in female form, was singing right in front of him, lulling him into a false reality. The littlest gestures like how she flitted her eyebrow or how she stomped her foot on the stage intrigued the psychiatrist. Often, he was lost in the music from the days of yore. Watching this titillating raven-haired woman singing and swaying to the music with such tenacity, as though the song spoke to her, Michael was truly lost in her swirling beauty, her clingy voice and the lyrics of a forgotten and dying generation.

"_That's life and I can't deny it. Many times, I've thought of cutting out but my heart just won't buy it. And if there's nothing shaking come here this July_," she sang. "_I'm gonna roll myself in, in a big ball… and die. My, my…_"

The song ended with a few impassionate claps followed.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. We'll be back in fifteen minutes," said the beautiful dark haired songstress on stage.

The band dispersed and headed to where Michael sat. As the bar stools were occupied by the members of the band, the songstress, who was last to leave the stage, tried to find a place to sit.

"Madame," chirped Michael as he stood from his stool, offering the seat to her.

"Thanks!" She smiled at Michael as she sat on the vacated barstool.

Torrents of blood rushed through his veins, pumping the heart vigorously as his eyes drank the sight of this beautiful woman. Her lean figure complimented with her raven black hair and dull grey eyes. Her opalescent complexion spoke volumes, as did her blood red frumpy, puffy, flowing evening gown. Combined with all those features, she resembled a vampire but to Michael, those vocal pipes made her more appropriately like a beautiful banshee albeit alive. She ordered her drink from the bartender and stared emptily, waiting for her alcoholic beverage. Mustering some his waning courage, he drank down his glass of liquid courage and approached her.

"That was a great set."

"Oh," she exclaimed startled. "Thanks. I didn't think that was great."

"No, I'm serious. That was perhaps that was the best rendition of 'That's Life' I've seen in a while."

"You really think so?"

"It felt as though as Frank was on stage singing," fidgeted Michael.

"So, you're saying that I'm a man?" She cocked her eyebrow, intrigued by the statement.

"Umm… no…?" jittered Michael nervously. She laughed at his reaction. She then took a sip of her beverage.

"Hey, you look familiar," said the songstress, squinting her eyes, taking a closer look at Michael.

"Well, I was on the papers two weeks ago."

"You're Michael Saul?"

"Yes, in the flesh," said Michael with a false sense of bravery, jutting his chest out to her.

"Wow!"

"Yep… the survivor of the Arparo Park kidnapping…"

"No, I don't care that you survived that. I knew your brother, Jacob."

"You knew Jake?"

"Hey, he was a very talented senior who went on to perform for three years at La Scala. Everyone knew your brother. And he was a very swell guy."

"Oh." At this point, Michael's heart sank that she was far more interested in his brother than him.

"How is he?"

"He's married to a beautiful Kiwi and living in the antipodes with my parents."

"That's amazing."

"Yeah…" He sipped his wine, getting more disheartened with the girl as she expressed her admiration of his brother.

"Well, I'm just more shocked that Jacob did not tell us that he had such a good looking brother."

"He didn't tell you about me?"

"He told us about how he had two very good siblings but not how attractive you are."

"If he told you that I was a good looking guy, you guys would probably say that he's gay and committing incest or something."

She chuckled. "And one with a sharp tongue too."

"You should see that I have something else that's sharp too," said Michael with a higher degree of sarcasm while swirling his glass of wine.

She sprayed her beverage, laughing uncontrollably at the sexually charged but joking comment. Michael instinctively tapped her back, trying to stop her from coughing and effectively, calming her down. Everyone, including her band mates, looked on, smiling and chuckling with intrigue.

"Oh, please tell me you're joking," she said struggling with bated breath.

Michael nodded.

"You're very funny."

"Tell that to my co-workers at Arkham."

"So, you are indeed the guy from the Arparo Park hostage crisis."

"And the only name I know of you is your band's name." He pointed at the image imposed on the kick drum that said, 'The Swinging Five and Bonnie Raven".

She extended her hand to Michael and said, "Oh, that! That's just a stage name," she snickered. "My name's Cassandra."

Brazenly, he planted a gentle kiss on her hand. "Well, anchante, madamoiselle."

"Well, that's awfully chivalrous of you," she giggled, blushing crimson.

"Well, it's not every day that I get to kiss the hand of a fine lady such as you."

She swiveled her barstool to where her drinks was and sipped it. "Well, if you stick around, maybe you'll just see more of me."

"I shall, milady," bowed Michael.

"Seriously, you don't have to be so courteous."

"Let me just give this drink to a friend of mine in the Warthog's Lair."

"You go ahead. I need to finish our third set for tonight so, later, why not prop yourself up on the front row when you're done?"

Michael agreed to the invitation and he could not turn down such an invitation by such a stunning lady. He told the bartender to keep his drink and quickly headed back to the Warthog's Lair with the glass of Joe Gilmore in hand. Back in the smoke-filled, over jubilant room, he noticed that the men's cheeks were as red as summer-grown tomatoes. Their heads were swaying to shanty of 'We Conquered the World' with their glasses and mugs in tow, swinging dangerous over their heads, foam dropping carelessly onto the antique mahogany table. The women and Redmond had their heads jutted towards each other, like ravenous crones over a cauldron, whispering to each other, cackling every half minute over the inane.

As he scanned the mess of the room, Michael found the senator and Aristotle still sitting next to each, laughing drunkenly, holding each other's shoulders like old buddies should. Their gregarious laughter made the room even louder and perhaps he tolerated these two people's drunken personalities because they were just enjoyable at any time.

"Here's your drink, senator." He placed the glass of Joe Gilmore in front of the senator. "And here's your –,"

"Thank you, s-s-s-son," slurred Arthur. "You keep the money for yourself. Aristotle told me you're a f-f-f-f-f-splendid person." Arthur sipped his drink. "This isn't a Foster Br-Brooks."

"I apologize that they don't have that senator."

"Oh, well, they should have it. Makes me happy and sure makes me soberer."

Michael chuckled.

"Anyway, I might just be heading –"

"Hey, Saul," interrupted Aristotle, stumbling out of his seat, unable to stand upright. "Aren't you my designated driver?"

"We took a cab here, Hermes," replied Michael with a tinge of irritation in his voice.

"Oh yeah…" Aristotle drunkenly tapped the senator's shoulders. "HEY! Could you give me a lift, Arby?"

The senator belched. "S-s-sure."

"Well, if you want to go Saul, go. If you can get a girl, that's better. You deserve that." The senator nodded assuredly to the sentiment expressed by Aristotle.

"A broad's nice, but a narrow's better," quipped the senator. Both he and Aristotle erupted into a fit of laughter, poking and pointing at each other like a wild pack of hyenas.

"Thanks, Aristotle," grumbled Michael.

Michael left the drunks in the Warthog Room. Closing the door behind him, he felt somewhat relieved that he did not have to deal or babysit the trustees anymore. More importantly, as he walked back to the bar to collect his drink, he just met one of the most stunning musicians in his life. With the pure exception of his father and brother, Michael was flabbergasted by the intensity by Cassandra's performance and he wanted more of it. Michael saw that she poured a lot of her emotion into a song that was already made timeless by an equally timeless talent.

He grabbed his now refilled carafe of wine and glass, heading towards the front row that faced the stage. As he took his place, he observed Cassandra doing an equipment check with her musical compatriots. She tapped her microphone, grunting over and over, saying, "Check one, two". Her guitarist strummed his guitar. The drummer tapped his cymbals and hit his drums. The keyboardist wistfully played the pianos, checking the keys were playing the correct tune. Michael stared at Cassandra and she playfully winked back at the psychiatrist. He raised his glass to her.

"We're back, ladies and gents," she greeted to those who were listening to her and her band. "Let's go with a Spanish cover song. It's called '¿Quién sera?' by Pablo Beltrán but, you may know this song as 'Sway' by Michael Bublé or better sung by Dean Martin."

Just as before, she gestured her band and the song began to be played by the Rolling Streaks. Although the room ignored the band with their conversations becoming a frenzied and rising crescendo, Michael was intrinsically lost in the enchanting world that Cassandra placed him into. He was, for the first time in a long time, lost in the music. He was also lost himself into the gleaming eyes of a beautiful woman who was standing in front of him, singing the song that allowed him to disappear into this new reality.

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><p>Throughout the night, Michael mimed along to the songs Cassandra performed. Around him, people slowly dispersed from the Griffon's Roost. Even the drunks in the Warthog's Lair left. They were only a few stragglers left in the Griffon's Roost. A few lovey-dovey couples, snuggling close against each other in the booths while the jazz ambience continued to echo in the room as its rhythm slowing by the minute to then halt.<p>

The drums ended its final beats, cymbals rattling. Cassandra approached the microphone and said, "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I hoped you enjoy the show and I hope to see you all very soon."

A few scarce claps followed and Cassandra bowed to their applause. Michael enthusiastically clapped for the band and he was the last to end the applause. The remnants of the audience stood from their seats and booths, leaving the band, the bartender and Michael as the last remaining people in the room. The bands packed up their instruments and Cassandra excitedly jumped down from the stage.

"Cass, that was an amazing performance," said Michael nervously.

"Thanks, Michael."

"Cass!" piped the bartender who was still standing behind the bar counter, diligently wiping the shot glasses.

"Yeah, Kirk?" hollered Cassandra, looking past Michael.

"Everyone's leaving so Imma close up earls, 'kay?"

"Yeah, I've got an escort tonight," she giggled, circling her arms around Michael's, clutching it tightly. "Come, let's go!"

With the pretty woman in tow, Michael headed to the cloakroom to retrieve his belongings and walked out of the tower through the elevator. As they rode down the elevator, Michael felt somewhat flustered and uncomfortable with Cassandra's clinginess. He liked intimacy but the concept of it was different for him. It was a long time since he had ever been with a woman. He was so sorely concentrated to his own personal endeavors, like a racehorse galloping to the finish line with blinders placed on its side. Exiting the tower, Michael gently picked her arm up and pried himself away from her.

"What's wrong?" she inquired.

"Nothing… it's just…" hesitated the psychiatrist.

"I'm too clingy?" she purred.

"No… yes…" relented Michael. "Look, it's not you, Cassandra. It's me."

"I know we're not dating, Michael," chirped the songstress. "Look, it's rare that I have a strapping man who would sit through an entire night's show of my bad singing."

"Bad singing?" said Michael, flabbergasted as the self-depreciating comment. "Cassandra, you know Jake. If you went to school with Jake, you are really something else. There's just not that many people who could enter Gotham's Conservatory without displaying some kind of talent. You have talent, my dear."

"You don't like me then?"

Pausing a few seconds, he gulped down the lump in his throat. He was nervous. His hands did not tremble but he was holding the handle of his briefcase very tightly. He felt cold sweat lining down the back of his shirt.

"I like you. I've met you in just the span of four hours."

"There's a 'but' coming, right?"

Michael chuckled. "You're right. I haven't been on a date for a long time. I've lost all my bearings in this idea of ritualized courtship."

"Ah! Well, we could take things slow. Most men who I normally go out with just want to have sex after having me wrapping my arms around theirs."

"Do they ever last long?"

"In bed, they last very long. In relationships, I've been known to cycle through men like us women and shoes."

"That's a bit sexist…"

"Don't worry, hot stuff. I can take it," she winked at him.

"Well, I'll tell you right here, right now, that I am very uncomfortable with the idea of a one-night fling with a woman."

"I can tell. Look, Michael, I rarely meet guys who are… what's that word… as courteous and polite as you. There were others but, you seemed to be genuinely interested in the music I play. And most men buy me drinks and never offer a seat. You gave me a seat and did not buy me a drink."

"I felt like alcohol would make you not perform well. Besides, a Saul has to be around music, the arts and sciences," affirmed Michael confidently towards that familial trait. "We've got to like it all or you're no Saul. It's on our family cress, you know?"

"Nice family motto," she chuckled. "So, do you want to give me a shot?"

"Can we move back to starting line?"

"Well, let's answer each other's question together."

"Let's."

They counted together. "One… two… three…"

"YES!" said both in unison, loudly.

She gave a hearty laugh and Michael giggled at the answer.

"Well, we both have our answers, then!" exclaimed Michael.

Cassandra looked at her "Well, it's one in the morning. There's a hot dog truck near where I live."

"Where do you live, Cassandra?"

"I live four blocks away. We can eat at CFF."

"Camano's Franks and Frites? That's food truck has one of the most disgusting and rowdiest hot dogs joints in Gotham."

"So, you know about CFF? Well, it's not that disgusting since there's nothing left open and Camano's gets pretty crowded. Besides, when you don't have a choice in where you can eat, you're really stuck with either that option or hunger. I choose filling my belly. I hadn't eaten since six in the afternoon."

Michael's stomach rumbled as she ended her hilarious rant.

"I guess you're hungry too. Did you eat anything while you were in the Lair?"

"I can compare the atmosphere there as Oktoberfest without sausages, food and good company."

"A Disneyland with beer and overbearing relatives?" she quipped.

Both of them laughed.

"Well, shall we depart then?"

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><p>Walking back from the subway station after escorting Cassandra back to her apartment, Michael hummed to himself happily. Together with Cassandra, he indulged Camano's frankfurters and she was right about the crowd and the taste. After all, frequent pub crawlers come here to sate their questionable drunken hunger and for the free show of cursing and swearing. More importantly, they reveled at the conversation they had. They talked a lot about music and their shared experiences together. For Michael, it was such a long time he had such a close, comforting conversation.<p>

Humming as he climbed up the stairs, he remembered that they had agreed to meet up for a lunch or dinner date somewhere in the coming week. The man, who decided to cloister himself from the world of romance, reopened his heart to the world to be shared once more. Of course, he had to keep it a secret from Aristotle and the rest at Arkham but he did not care. He had a date after seven long years.

He unlocked the door, continuing to hum the uplifting tune. He entered his empty apartment and locked the door behind him. As he walked to his room, humming to the tune, he heard a knock on his window door.

Michael turned his head and saw it. There, on the balcony, stood a masked man wearing a black costume with a black cape that flowed freely against the gentle night breeze.

"Good evening, Michael," greeted the masked man. "We need to talk."

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><p><strong>Once more, please leave reviews! I like when people tell me I'm wrong or right. Improvement is the key for me and REVIEWS help.<strong>


	10. Unwarranted Attention

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of this fanfiction with the pure exception of Michael Saul and several other characters. Characters such as Batman, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze and others belong to DC Comics and their respective creators/corporation.

**Good evening, guys. **

**Although I said "I'll be back in December with a new chapter," this chapter was written throughout the last two months. It was slow and I had a lot of trouble writing it. With a 120 page college thesis, it was impossible for me to keep this up and school work. Anyway, until mid-December, this is one chapter I can give you guys.**

**Anyway, this chapter will finally have Batman. But Batman in a weird way. Like the chapter with Poison Ivy, his interaction with Michael was limited at best. And this was a difficult chapter to write overall. The villain (re)introduced in this chapter was difficult to write. I want to say that because other sources kept playing around with the villain's transformation from villain to anti-hero to villain, it was hard to write it as that character has intentions.  
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**Also, I have problems writing action sequences. Storyboarding helped but, not in the way I envisioned. Therefore, I URGE YOU to find flaws with this chapter. I want you to point out anachronism or just out-of-sequence stuff so that in the edit, I can work on it.**

**Before I forget, I want to respond to several comments so, if you reviewed my story the last time, head on down to the bottom and I'll answer you.  
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**************As always, I would love reviews and always, I appreciate them. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. **Please review!** Enjoy!**************

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><p>"What do you want, Batman?" irked an annoyed Michael Saul.<p>

"First, open your window door," replied the masked vigilante with his coarse voice.

"No!" shouted Michael annoyed with the antics of the person standing on the balcony.

Batman glared at Michael, as did he. The silence was browbeating for the two. Eventually, still with his crumpled, angry face, Michael opened the door as the masked man left little choice for Michael. Ignoring the vigilante would have resulted in a disastrous situation and inviting him in would just dig Michael digger into a persistent conflict-filled abyss between masked cops, robbers and freaks.

"What do you want, Batman?"

"I wanted to check on you, citizen."

"I'm fine," replied Michael frustrated as he massaged his forehead.

"Has Poison Ivy's spore had any effect on you?"

"Uh… I don't know…"

Silence engulfed the room once more.

"If you are alright, citizen, I will take my leave."

"Hold the fuck up, Batman," Michael stopped Batman as his head jutted out of the window door. "Just as I ambled back into my home, you appear outside my window. And you just came here to check on me? What do you want from me? More importantly, how the fuck do you know where I live?"

"I know everything, citizen."

"Then how come when she broke out of prison you did not stop her there and then? Shouldn't your 'Bat-senses' tell you?"

"I rescued you, didn't I?"

MSuddenly, gunshots rang through the neighborhood. Both men ran out to the balcony to observe the hullabaloo. Their heads moved in directions, attempting to determine where the shots came from.

"We can get into a philosophical debate about my actions, citizen. But, it is time for me to leave."

"Wait-"

"Excuse me, Michael." Batman jumped on the railings of Michael's balcony and leaped onto the roof from it.

"WAIT!" yelled Michael to the now sprinting Batman. "I'M NOT DONE WITH YOU!"

Quickly, Michael climbed onto the railing. Wobbling uncontrollably, he tried to steady himself so he could climb up to the rooftop from the rail. As he precariously swung high up in the air, Michael mustered a weak jump, grabbing hold of the gutter. Holding dearly onto the gutter, he gathered his strength to clamber himself up onto the rooftop. He successfully climbed up onto the roof, laying on it for a few seconds to regain his composure, panting heavily.

He quickly stood upright and scouted the rooftops around him to find where the Batman could have run off. Then, he spotted him. Without hesitation, he ran on his roof and jumped the gaps between the apartments. Chasing Batman was difficult. The vigilante was fit whilst Michael was average in every way.

Eventually, Michael came across a large gap that separated two apartment buildings. He quickly turned around and jogged a few meters, panting heavily. Determined that he was at a safe distance, Michael sprinted and as he reached the edge, he leaped across the large gap. He landed on the rooftop, rolling on the ground before standing up once more.

Slightly bruised from the feat of strengths and stupidity, Michael was resolute in dealing with Batman. Chasing after the vigilante was not exhilarating for Michael but the adrenaline rush from it that surged through his body spoke otherwise. Passing through chimney columns and some rooftop gardens of Gotham, Batman ascended up the fire escape of an apartment building. Michael leaped from the roof to the emergency stairs and followed suit. At the top of the roof, he finally caught up with Batman, sweating and panting.

"Two-Face!" gasped Michael.

Batman turned his head around and cried out, "Michael, get out." The heavily scarred villain smacked the back of the distracted vigilante's head with a wooden plank.

Two-Face ambled towards a trapped Michael. The normal half that had the generous blue-grey eyes of Harvey Dent was unmoved. But, his scarred, melted, pink-greyish necrotic face sneered at the now trapped Michael. His popping eyes that lacked eyelids or the regular pink-fleshy skin glowered at the psychiatrist. Michael fell to the floor, panicking at the slow advance of the half-scarred man.

"Well, if it isn't Dr. Michael Saul…" snarled Two-Face sarcastically. "It's a coincidence that you appeared the same time Batman appeared."

Michael continued to move back slowly as Two-Face walked on steadily towards him. Inching closer and closer, Michael felt that he bumped into something. Using his hand, he felt the thing that he hit. The thing felt warm, thick and clothed. As he moved his hand around the body, he felt certain wetness. The liquid that trickled was warm and slightly viscous. He brought the finger to his face and on his fingers, it was blood.

"Heads told me to chase after him. Tails told me that he needed to end his life. He robbed someone. Justice had to be served. And now, I am the criminal?"

"Harvey… please… don't flip your coin…" pleaded Michael, cornered by the villain.

Two-Face threw his coin up in the air and caught it as hurtled down. He glanced at the flipped coin and yanked a pipe attached to the building. He flipped his coin once more and calmly placed the coin into his coat pocket.

Two-Face raised the pipe high up in the air, closing his good eye and said apologetically, "I'm sorry, Dr. Saul… all guilty parties must be eliminated and vigilantes like you must go."

As the pipe headed towards Michael's head, the psychiatrist instinctively rolled away from the disfigured villain. He bounced up and bolted to the rooftop door. Noticing that he missed, Two-Face roared in agony. Foaming at the mouth, he looked around for Michael and found him, struggling to open the locked door. He grabbed the pipe and ambled slowly toward Michael.

"Come on, fucking door!" cursed Michael, turning the knobs and pulling it to no avail that it will open. He looked over his shoulder and saw the towering figure of the half-scarred man, walking slowly towards Michael. His scarred flesh of what were once lips oozed saliva ravenously. Michael continued to jigger the door open but with each glance over his shoulder, the villain got ever closer.

"Come here, MICHAEL!" roared Two-Face. "We must resolve your fate!"

Without hesitation, Michael, with his back turned on the encroaching villain, threw his elbow behind him blindly.

"ARGH!" Two-Face rubbed his chest in agony, dropping the rusty pipe.

Swiftly, Michael ran from the door and grabbed the dropped pipe. As he looked around him, he had no more place to run and with the Dark Knight knocked out, Michael was trapped.

As Two-Face regained his composure, he roared as he sought Michael with his half-droopy face. Spotting Michael running about on the rooftop, he walked towards the doctor, snarling. Creeping slowly towards the doctor, he growled, "You can't run, doctor. Not anymore. Not with the Bat unconscious!"

Michael inhaled deeply and yelled, "Not if I act first!"

Hastily, he ran toward Two-Face, raising the lead pipe over his head with both hands. Michael cried out a meek war cry, Michael closed his eyes and he tried to strike the pipe over the villain's head. However, in mid-air, he felt a resistance in the pipe's trajectory. Upon opening his eyes, he saw the scarred man's face staring at him. In the Two-Face's left hand was the pipe.

Then, there was a few seconds of silence. The sound of dribbling drool and heavy breathing coming from the scarred man filled the air. The nervous, equally heavy breathing of the doctor matched, harmonized the air around them. Both man stared at each other. One had the look of vengeance while the other was filled with utter fear.

"I believe we are at an impasse, doctor…"

Michael nodded in acknowledgement.

"Well…" heaved Two-Face as he reached into his pocket to retrieve his coin. "Let's determine your fate once more…"

The villain took out his precious coin out of his coat pocket once more. Holding the pipe firmly with equal opposing force, he flipped his coin. Michael saw the coin flying up in the air. Knowing that his days were numbered, he quickly thought of something to get out of his predicament. Quickly, he kicked Two-Face's knee. The scarred man yelled in agony and missed catching his lucky coin.

"My coin!" panicked Two-Face.

"Ahem…" coughed a voice from behind the villain.

Two-Face turned his head behind and stood the Caped Crusader. Batman punched the villain and he collapsed to the floor. Michael moved out of the way and from the comfort of the emergency door, the doctor watched the uneven brawl between the two. Batman continued to beat the villain but Two-Face countered several of the maneuvers. Both men fought on the rooftops as high winds swept through, both evenly matched in prowess and condition.

Batman landed one final uppercut onto the villain's jaw and in an instant, Two-Face was knocked to the ground. The vigilante grabbed Two-Face's collar and socked him once more for good measure, rendering the villain unconscious. As the lifeless body slumped on the rooftop, Batman turned him around and tied his hands.

"Thank you for your distraction," murmured the vigilante hoarsely.

"You're welcome." Michael was sitting by the locked door as he dusted off his shirt. "What about the body?"

"The police have to deal with it."

Michael huffed, indignant that he fended himself with a villain in combat.

"I suppose that this is not your first time with dealing with psychos?" asked Batman, invading Two-Face's privacy by raiding his pockets.

"No." He covered his face with his hands. "Working at Arkham, you have to deal with the abuses of insane patients. The regular people who are locked up are unfortunate that they are not getting they care they need."

"Your tax dollar at work, huh?"

Michael snickered. "Yeah, I suppose so…"

The radiating light from the city's lamp posts made it hard to see the cloudless night sky. As Michael peered up into the sky, still sitting, tired from battling with Two-Face, his mind wandered. He thought of how beautiful the night was. The stress, the adrenaline, the joy and the anger – all expressions felt within one night. And as he stared into the sky that had the emanating orange and blue glow from the streetlights, Gotham was once again beautiful for that serene moment.

"The police are coming," interrupted Batman.

On cue, sirens blared through the quiet streets. Streaks of blue and red shone on the buildings seven blocks away. On the top of the tall apartment building, where the battle took place, Batman peered down at the streets below.

"You need to leave…"

"What about you, Batman?"

"Do you want to get in trouble with the cops?"

Michael stayed silent, realizing that chasing Batman through the roofs of Gotham may have been a bad idea.

"Alright, what should I do?"

Batman pointed to the fire escape, the same way that both men climbed up. Michael simply nodded and quickly hopped on it.

"Michael!" The psychiatrist turned to look at the vigilante. "I hope our next meeting would not be so eventful…"

Michael climbed down the fire escape and within three minutes, he reached the ground of the tall apartment building, huffing profusely. Although the doctor was in shape, he was in no way the specimen of fitness. Sneaking through the alleyways, he moved quickly through it to find a street. Upon finding Acton Street, he walked back home.

It was three thirty in the morning.

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><p>Yawning with mouth the size of a crocodile's maw, Michael stumbled sleepily up into Arkham's elevator. He arrived at his usual hour but his shaggy appearance startled several people. Even on his way to Arkham, some people on the subway mistook him for a transient.<p>

After all, he missed his typical morning rituals of coffee, sausage and eggs. He did not wash up. His hair looked like Albert Einstein's except not white. The man barely slept and his eyes flittered.

He arrived on his floor and staggered through the hallway, yawning at every opportune time. Then, he was stopped by a passing Aristotle.

"Hey, Michael… whoa!" exclaimed the head of the asylum. "You look like a troll doll… what happened to you?"

"I left the club late last night. What happened to the senator?"

Aristotle waved his hand at Michael dismissively. "Argument over the cab, a bunch of 'I love you, motherfucker,' and I slept at his place. His chauffeur did not even know we left the Roost last night. Long story short: I was dropped off this morning by the senator's chauffeur."

"Wonderful…" Michael yawned.

"Please tell me that Poison Ivy's pheromones are not affecting you…" Aristotle sighed.

Michael just peered irritatingly and bedazzled with his half-closed eyes.

"Oh, by the way, you should look downstairs soon. They're wheeling in classic prisoner number four eighty-two."

"Who?" asked a confused Michael, still unable to fully open his eyes.

"Two-Face!"

Just as Aristotle mentioned the name, the sirens in the Arkham lobby went off. The guards went into their positions and the door was flung open. In chains was the dual faced villain. Michael's eyes widened as he saw the villain being led to his cell-cum-war wing. Just before Two-Face was led into the ward's wing, he looked up and saw Michael, peering up from the rafters. In an instant, the villain scrunched up his face. His nostrils flared and he flailed wildly. He tried running towards the direction of the psychiatrist although his freedom was resisted by the chain.

"I WILL GET YOU, MICHAEL SAUL!" the villain roared. The guards had the upper hand and without hesitation, the guards yanked him with the chains, subduing him as they led through the door.

Aristotle then turned to Michael. "Jeez, what's up with Harvey Dent?"

Michael was pale.

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><p><strong>coldblue - Thank you for your enthusiastic response towards my story that you spammed the review section. I deleted some of the comments that implored me to force an update and I apologize if those reviews were removed (but I got your reviews and I thank you for them). Anyway, you saw Batman in this chapter and because this story is about the villains and the psychiatrists, Batman won't be seen in every chapter. I will mention him off the cuff and his involvement must be realistic in how vigilantes like him respond to crisis. Poison Ivy in the park and she escaped? Batman must appear. Gunshot nearby. Batman will show up. Titanic in 1912. Batman would have been a sperm and could not act to help steer the doomed ship away. YOU WILL see more of Bruce Wayne. Again, THANKS FOR THE REVIEW!<strong>

**deathwing17 - Oh, you will see Joshua and Michael butt heads. Imagine as though Pete Campbell and Lane Pryce had another showdown. I can only describe it in that way. And it will not be for awhile so, stay tuned.  
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**kyubbiman - Thanks for the compliments.  
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****************Once more, please leave reviews! I like when people tell me I'm wrong or right. Improvement is the key for me and REVIEWS help.** And continue to Favorite my story if it pleases you. And I cannot stress this enough: please review the story.  
><strong>************


	11. The Eve Before Halloween (Part 1)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of this fanfiction with the pure exception of Michael Saul and several other characters. Characters such as Batman, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze and others belong to DC Comics and their respective creators/corporation.

**After a long time, I finally found the time to write this chapter. Hello again, dear reader. It has been quite awhile since I've written anything. I had a lot of problems at home which have been finally resolved in a more graceless manner. I won't dwell on it as my life may bore the skint out of you all.**

**Anyway, for this chapter, I've decided to skip past at least four months from the last chapter. Other than having Two-Face pissed off at Michael at the end of the last chapter, Michael has not made any progress with our villainess. However, I won't go into that until the next chapter. We want to see what had happened to Michael and I've decided to give some life to Michael.**

**So, in the run up to Halloween, I will try my level best to churn out at least a few chapters (three more) by or after Halloween.**

**To those who PM'd me and I did not respond to your PMs, I am sorry. Life takes a precedent over writing and work too. And to those who reviewed my work, thanks for the feedback.**

**As usual, please leave reviews and critiques (again, for me, this story is a practice on grammar and continuity writing). Also, like or fave this story. Constructive criticism is very much welcomed. Please enjoy reading this and hopefully, reviewing it too! enjoy!**

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><p>Another autumn day passed by as the evening sun blanketed Gotham City with its warm, orange glow on the end of a gusty October. The northern winds of winter crept slowly onto the city, turning the neatly planted grove of oak trees on Arparo Street a hue of brown, yellow and red. Blustery winds have blown off a few good hats off the heads of some men and women. This was a season that required one to shield their necks with a scarves.<p>

This was also the day before All Hallow's Eve.

The typically crime infested Arparo Park hummed positively, different from most other days of the year. Around the neighborhood, carved pumpkins adorned the stoops of every house. The solitary candles within the jack-o-laterns placed by the precarious curb illuminated the crooked, two-toothed, grinning faces. Silhouettes of witches and black cats hung loftily on the door while that one house who went all out for this seasonal holiday went all out. The windowsill of the house had cobwebs strewn on its corners which was further complimented with rigged cardboard cutouts that popped up unsuspectingly and a booming sound system that spooked passers-by. Of course there were the few pragmatic houses that did not decorate for Halloween and a few that gunned straight for Christmas.

"That house seems eager for Santa," chimed Cassandra as she and Michael walked past the tinsel-laden house.

"This neighborhood may be crime-ridden and filled with bullet holes but, it goes all out for Halloween, Easter and Christmas," replied Michael, pulling her arm close to his, squeezing it tighter as they walk down the street. "At least that house seems ready for some Yuletide fun."

"More importantly, Michael, are you _ready _for some fun?" grinned Cassandra seductively.

"If fun for you is making me a sandwich then, be my guest," said Michael nonchalantly, looking straight ahead and not making any eye-contact with Michael.

The couple giggled and Cassandra hit Michael's arm jokingly, having a look of bemusement and faux disgust.

"Ah… sexism…" sighed Michael.

It had been several months since Michael and Cassandra dated. They had become a firm couple. The first few dates were not awkward for the two. Michael's wit and Cassandra's openness made them compatible from the start. Their relationship was of a simple nature. He sarcastically comments on something while she smiles and then, laughs at it. At times, she berates him for saying something insensitive but they had a passionate understanding of each other. They were rarely harsh words between the two. He supported her work while she stood away from his, knowing instinctively that Arkham Asylum gave him anguish. It was a mutual understanding that the couple had that was intuitive and respectful of boundaries. After all, having a family who were interested in the arts made Michael accept his significant other's artistic vocation rather easily.

Then, there was of course their _relationship_. Under the sheets, the stingy Scorpio and the clawy Cancer could easily make a ruckus to wake the dead. Michael and Cassandra were lusty (and sweaty) during their sexual congress. Passionate and eager, the two were definitely a couple that formed themselves through an emotional and physical bond. Tonight, on the eve before Halloween, Michael and Cassandra will enjoy their ritualistic lovemaking.

For Michael, having Cassandra in his life was perhaps the distraction that took him away from grieving over Hannah. After all, seven years had passed him by since her death. Cassandra was as eager and passionate as Hannah. Cassandra was fun to be around with. Cassandra had the same taste in music as Michael. Cassandra was in Michael's mind most of the time but Hannah's shadow still lingered in his mind. He was slightly happier after meeting Cassandra and losing Hannah. Michael had already reached some temporary peace of mind with Cassandra's presence.

As they walked down the neighborhood, for the few minutes of silence, Michael had many thoughts swirling through his head. As both he and Cassandra passed by the gates of the derelict Arparo Park, he cannot help but think about his day.

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><p>Earlier in the day, there was the usual meeting at Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Although the trustees and Bruce Wayne were absent, the meeting went off normally. There were reports done of patient's progress while there was the typically upsetting argument that devolved from a difference of opinion between Michael and Joshua.<p>

"Oh please," Michael scoffed. "That crazy person could not be more untreatable."

"It just so happens that the man needs time," bellowed Joshua.

"Neville Chamberlain believed Hitler needed his time and space!" barked Michael, eliciting a few snickers in the room. "He's a psychopath waiting to unleash his wrath and all these stories that have these wild discrepancies are setting your progress back seven notches, Doctor Tindall."

Even as the bickering intensified, Aristotle sat in silence, smiling as the two psychiatrists argued aggressively. As Aristotle engaged himself in a game of Bubble Breaker on his Blackberry, the Happy Trio sans Elizabeth who had mixed her schedule, cheered Michael on while the others chatted with their sitting neighbors.

Arkham Asylum was a crazy house that housed some of America's most dangerous, psychologically unstable criminals. What the meeting room becomes after Bruce Wayne's absence is a coliseum of arguments, deluded advocacies and chaos. Although they did their jobs outside, meetings conducted by Dr. Hermes Aristotle showed that he was truly unfit to run the house of psychos. But again, he was the only one who is most qualified to run the nuthouse. Who else would have taken the post of directing head after being shortlisted five times in a career spanning four decades?

"Why not we go outside and fight it out?" screamed Tindall as he took of his coat.

"Here we go again…" sighed Michael.

At this point of the meeting, their air becomes almost Pavlovian and animal-like. As the doctors egg on the two psychiatrists to fight, Michael flat out refused to lay down a fisticuff. Michael abhorred violence of any kind unless it was a necessary deterrent towards further violence and of course, the Joker. Michael rubbed his forehead in a bid to soothe the rush of words clambering into his ear. The words 'Fight' and 'Do it!' continued to reverberate around the room, making Michael more uncomfortable as the chants and holler become a frenzy.

Michael stood from his seat.

"I am ashamed of you all. You are acting as though this is some sort of cockfight in an opium den. I know there's a pool going on about how long will my arguments with Dr. Tindall here will result in an altercation."

"Why not today-" blurted Joshua.

"Shut it!" Michael shouted back. "You people are psychiatrists! You all act like the people who are locked in here."

With a sudden gusto, Michael grabbed his suitcase and notes, scrunching the bits of paper onto the lacquered container. As he strutted towards the door in a huff, he turned around to see the meeting room.

"I'm going to go see my patients for the rest of the day while you people dick around. Aristotle, next time, just get Bruce to attend these meetings, no matter how close we are to Halloween. Those functions are hoity-toity. You know, the money could be better spent on our facilities or some god forsaken charity involving children or beards instead of rich tits like Sir Ponselby of Up-His-Own-Ass."

"By the way Dr. Tindall, fuck you!" exclaimed Michael as he flipped his middle finger towards Joshua, slamming the mahogany door behind him.

"Well, fuck you too," retorted Joshua after a few seconds of delayed silence to the no longer present Michael.

The boardroom's air was still. The confused psychiatrists looked at each other and at Aristotle. The fuzzy, old mind doctor shuffled his paper and packed it quietly into his briefcase. He let loose a small whimper of a cough, expelling the discomfort lodged in his trachea.

"Meeting dismissed everyone."

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><p>Amongst the cavalcade of patients he had, Harley Quinn, also known as Dr. Harleen Quinzel, was perhaps the easiest to deal with. The former psychiatrist-in-training at Arkham was turned over to the dark side by the insidious Joker many moons ago. Whenever Harley escaped with the Clown Prince of Crime, she was unstoppable as the Joker's right hand woman and frequently abused queen. The gadgets she uses and her acrobatic prowess made her an adversary worth fighting and her confused, brazen and embraced madness was something to be feared.<p>

However, Harleen Quinzel the patient was different. Orderlies and doctors described her as 'easy to deal with' and 'cooperative to a fault.' Although the description of the former psychiatrist were too complimentary, Michael treaded lightly with those words, treating all of his patients equally. Michael believed in blank slates at the start of a treatment and for him, there were boundaries and goals that he set for his patients.

As a former employee of Arkham, Harley understood the rules and she respected the boundaries set by her former colleagues. She understood that they were hired to keep psychotics at bay, like she once did before becoming mad herself. Although out in the open world, she would be as cruel and as insidious as her lover, tailing and shielding him from harm. At Arkham, they were separated into the gender segregated cells and without the Joker's domineering influence, she was demure and easily handled. That is why she often was courteous to a fault, even when the orderlies had to tighten her straitjacket. Of course there were days that she would be combative but then again, being locked away in a mental hospital-cum-prison would drive any man or woman mad with rage.

Today, she was having her therapy in Michael's office.

"I just don't know, Mikey," groaned Harley as she lied on the couch. "Every time I get into a discussion with the other doctors about Mistah J, they just want to talk about me."

"The Joker's life is your life too," supplemented Michael.

"See!" she exclaimed excitedly. "You get it!"

"But you know the deal, right?"

"Yeah… yeah… we look at their past before we look at the breaking point. But I don't want to really talk about my parents, my old friends or the old boyfriends I had. They're not as important as Mistah J."

"Do you think your unbridled behavior is inextricably linked to the Joker's?" quizzed Michael.

"No! You should know where it comes from, Mikey."

"If you want me to say it's the Freudian argument that the id is overacting, I'm going to strangle you."

Harley chuckled. "And that's why you're the only doc I can trust with treatment."

"Even if we let say it is the id, I remember you saying that partying was your vice."

"But what does partying entail to, Mikey? What does drinking your body weight worth of liquor does to oneself?" pushed Harley.

"If you know the answer, then…"

"It's the path to self-destruction, Mikey. And if you can no longer subject yourself to the degradation, you…" she led on, now sitting on the couch.

"You destroy others. You destroy whatever vestiges of what you are left with and strip the others of whatever you once had," he answered.

"Exactly!" yelped Harley excitedly. "Most of them want to answer the question for me. I just want to see whether you and I can match up answers."

"But you were a studious person and your 'rowdy' party-time behavior should not be the impetus to join the Joker…"

"To quote our fellow Professor O'Neill…"

"Answers of the deranged are layered but uncomplicated. They're not easy but it's not rocket science," sighed Michael. "I took his symposium ten years ago… could you believe it…?"

"So… how's red?" chimed Harley.

Michael looked at her inquisitively. "The color red? I think you look fat in it."

"No, no…" she shrugged. "My friend!"

He looked at her in confusion.

"Poison Ivy!"

"Oh!" Michael feigned ignorance. "You know… I don't know…"

"C'mon, Michael," begged Harley, edging closer, creeping nearer to the psychiatrist who was busy scribbling. "You can tell me anything. We're friends, after all."

"No, I am not telling you anything," said Michael as he continued to scribble into his pen. "And you're not my friend…"

"Since you're writing bad things about me and I'm not going to kill you today, you can tell me how her progress coming along."

"Don't you get those kites that other prisoners get here?"

"I don't… we're not even allowed to have pencils in the cells," she pouted.

"Well, Harleen…" said Michael as Harley's eyes widened to hear something about her other frequent collaborator in crime. "She's slow in her progress."

"It's been… how many months now, Michael?"

"Four months."

"And when you say 'slow' for four months, has she talked about her parents yet or…"

"The session is over, Harleen," said Michael as he pointed at the clock. "It's time to get back."

"Come on, Mikey! Tell me at least a detail of the sessions!" she pestered as Michael rang for the orderlies to pick Harley up. "When I passed by her two weeks ago after your session, she didn't say a word."

"Harleen, three words for you: patient doctor confidentiality," he said, gesturing his three fingers as he said each word.

"Well, it was nice talking to a fellow colleague of mine," said Harley as the burly orderlies came in to take her away.

"Former colleague, Harleen," he corrected.

"Next week, doc?" asked Harley as she was led out.

Michael checked his schedule book, flipping through it wildly and then, nodded.

"See you next week, Mikey!"

"Swallow the pills I prescribed, Harleen!" yelled Michael back to the crazed former psychiatrist.

"She's too fun to treat sometimes…" thought Michael, busy writing his findings about Harley Quinn. "Too bad the courts have mandate over her stay here…"

As he wrote his report on Harley Quinn, Michael cannot help but think about Poison Ivy. The outgoing and knowledgeable Harley Quinn was easy to treat. To Michael, her life was an open book, filled with incomprehensible scribble and doodles, inked in blood and mascara. The casual nature in the way she described the criminal things she had done and the other mundane things she did in her life was something of a miracle and a curse for him. Each piece of her life was hard to understand and piece together. For Michael, hers was a puzzle that was almost completed.

Then, as he looked Poison Ivy's file, he cannot help but notice the scarcity of progress. In the last three years that he started working with Harley Quinn, given her in-and-out disposition at the asylum, Poison Ivy's file was noticeably thinner than Harley's after four months. Michael described Poison Ivy looking like 'a bush that was hit by a drought, shriveled, leaving only a few clingy leaves in its dying, drying branches.' He flipped through her file and the word 'diatribe' was written on every sheet after her first and second sessions.

Leaning back in his chair, Michael cannot help but reminisced the sessions that he scribbled 'diatribe'. Flipping through the papers stacked in the folder, he found a transcript of one of the sessions he conducted with the botanical villain.

"_Do you know why I hate mankind, Michael? I hear the screams of a thousand blades of grass, waking me from my slumber. I hear the trees stilly aggravate themselves over the haze-filled clouds that surround our world. Or the roses and carnations when we overgrow them for the romantic gesture that speaks for a short moment, to then only be discarded in a corner, forgotten and left to rot. Everything mankind has done has brought naught but destruction for their own greed. Their greed, their thirst for the unending gold – I hate them for these reasons. They made me what I am today."_

"_Greed,_" thought Michael introspectively.

A sudden knock on the door jolted the psychiatrist back to his senses. He scanned his room for the door and saw his nurse, Bridget Campbell, walking into his office with a file clutched to her chest.

"Michael," said Bridget. "The therapy room is still under maintenance."

Michael sighed.

"What about the second or the third therapy room?" enquired Michael, still focused his notes.

"All eleven rooms are booked," she replied, placing the file she had on her hand on Michael's table. "We don't have the criminally insane in here too, you know?"

"I don't know why we call ourselves Arkham, the home for the criminally insane and mommy who popped too many Xanax after her mental breakdown?" said Michael sarcastically. "Do I have to use my room to treat her?"

"When I worked with Dr. Strange or Dr. Aristotle, they used to use their rooms for therapy sessions."

"Hugo Strange to cut deals with patients so he could see the psychology of chaos firsthand and he's a convicted criminal. Aristotle needed to be close to his drinks cabinet," jested the psychiatrist as he closed his file on Poison Ivy. "I just believe in the sterile rooms for treatment though, Bridget."

"We have to make some sacrifices, Michael."

"What sacrifice? The Wayne Foundation placed an eight hundred and fifty million dollar trust on this institution and it was not even enough to get us a few more therapy rooms? I'm sacrificing nothing for this glorified prison." Michael pointed out snarkily.

"Well," she reposed herself. "Poison Ivy is on her way."

"Six guards flanked by her sides?"

"Four."

"What happened to the other two?"

"They called in sick this morning."

Michael tutted in disbelief.

"I'm predicting a breakout tonight or tomorrow, Bridget," said the psychiatrist, waving Harley Quinn's file floppily, signaling his nurse to file it away. "Mark my words, tomorrow is going to go spooky quiet."

"How sure are you?"

Just as Michael was to reply, the phone in his office rang. He picked it up and he was informed that Poison Ivy was outside his office. Bridget hurried to the door and as she opened the door, Poison Ivy strutted in with the four guards. Like most times, she was secured in her straitjacket that was being unfastened by two of the guards. Her hair was straight but her fringes were crooked and curled. Her eyes were dark and sunken, juxtaposed against her now paler green body. With normal patients, their faces would have shown that they are deep in depression at this stage of their imprisonment. Poison Ivy just looked vexed by the entire ordeal.

As the guards and Bridget left room, the villain Poison Ivy now sat across Michael Saul in his office in his couch. As he smiled at her, he cannot help but observe her. Without the straitjacket, she tried to cover her body with her arms. Unlike the other times he saw her, a disheveled Poison Ivy was something he did preferred but did not like. He also noticed that the uniform that she donned was looser as her collarbone that jutted from her neck peeked through.

With his focus now on his file, he clicked his pen and softly said, "Shall we begin?"


	12. The Eve Before Halloween (Part 2)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of this fanfiction with the pure exception of Michael Saul and several other characters. Characters such as Batman, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze and others belong to DC Comics and their respective creators/corporation.

**I was busy with stuff in real life so my writing got withheld. Also, I've decided to rename the story's title as a whole as the title sounded vague. **

**I'll try to write more but again, life comes first. So, I can't promise you the next update soon but it will be within this year.**

**As usual, please leave reviews and critiques (again, for me, this story is a practice on grammar and continuity writing). Also, like or fave this story. Constructive criticism is very much welcomed. Please enjoy reading this and hopefully, reviewing it too! enjoy!**

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><p>The usual silence followed just as Michael closed the door and sat upon his chair. Unlike other times where the sterile therapy room was used for their sessions, Michael's messy office was today's site for their talk. And as usual, the doctor and patient just shook their legs or fiddled with their hands. Michael just looked at her, waiting for someone to say something.<p>

"You have a cute nurse, by the way," complimented Poison Ivy.

"Thanks. She was the smartest amongst the pool of applicants we had. Cute was secondary priority."

"I'm just surprised you have not seduced her," she teased.

Michael lifted his hand and showed his ring finger.

"She's married and I have one simple rule: no married women."

"You live by a code?"

"Not just a code," giggled Michael. "A series of codes. A series of ethics if you will."

"How so, doctor?"

"If I am attracted to a woman, I must be upfront on why I find her attractive. Be it talent or appearance. Then, I look for signs if she is taken. If she talks a lot about her cats or dogs or plants or her work, she's single. If she talks about her friend who has a male name, I go into platonic mode. The androgyny kills the mood. If she talks about her exes or her boyfriend, I stay away, end the conversation and move away."

"No sluts for the good doctor, then?" the villainess teased slightly once more.

"There's more than just the physical first meeting and such."

Poison Ivy stood up and moved around the office. She waltzed slowly towards the desk that had the massive paperwork piled up. Scattered, loose and unclipped, the sheets of paper to the villainess made no sense.

"God, your room is messy."

Michael gestured his temple with his pen.

"As long as I am clear in thought and organized here, it makes sense for me."

"I should really kill you for using so much paper," muttered Poison Ivy half-jokingly.

"As much as that steel contraption under my desk is of so much use, I still prefer putting my thoughts to paper with a pen. Besides, if I had boring sessions, I could doodle. You can't do that with computers."

She snickered at his comment as she moved slowly to the bookcase. Michael's bookcase was unremarkable. You could tell that he owned a lot of hardback books as crimson, gold and brown splattered the façade of the bookcase. In the middle of the bookcase, Poison Ivy noticed a mantle in the middle of the bookcase with four pictures.

Each picture was framed in a different way. In the silver lined frame was an old family photo of Michael. She was unable to tell who was who but there were three children enjoying the company of their parents. The father of the photo was playing a violin while his wife looked on in an armchair, enamored by the performance. The oldest looking child stood next to the father with his mouth wide opened. The two youngest children, one of them a very small infant, looked on.

The second picture was of Michael in a traditional graduating gown. Michael looked younger, no more than seventeen, as he did not have the sometimes bedraggled look that the current Michael has. In this photo, Michael smiled on as he shook the hands of a university official, maybe the president of the college or university. In the background, a large seal was hovered above Michael and the college official. The seal had the words, 'Massachusetts Institute of Technology' encircled around the school's emblem.

The third photo was a close-up of Michael and a young woman. The background was pure white but the tree by its side showed that they were outside. In the photo, Michael sported a more garish and stylish hair. His brown eyes were bright and glowing, complimenting his satisfied and contented smile. The girl too was smiling, leaning her delicate head on Michael's shoulder. The girl squinted slightly, maybe due to the flash of the camera, but Poison Ivy could make out the girl's light green eyes. The girl's dirty blonde hair complimented those emerald orbs she had for eyes.

What made Poison Ivy stared at this photo for a long time was the accessory placed upon her hair: a singular rose. For such a thing to survive in the harsh winter world astonished her. She recognized that this potent symbol of love was adorned on what looked like the love of Michael's life. Even in the most frigid time of the year, that rose poised to stay strong, even if it had just a short life to live.

The last photo perplexed Poison Ivy. It was a picture of an orchid up close. There was nothing spectacular about the orchid. It had the usual bearings of a typical tropical orchid. The droopy leaves that make the flowers stand out. The stripe in the middle that lets it one knew that it was an orchid. There was nobody but a singular plant in the photo. It made no sense to Poison Ivy that after such sentimentality, there was this one random nature shot.

"Dean Martin once sang, 'Memories are Made of This'," said Michael, creeping up behind her. "Those pictures are just a small fraction of my mortal memories."

Startled, a shocked Poison Ivy shrieked, "Jeez, do you have to do that?"

Michael chuckled. "I rarely get to do that to patients."

"You have a nice family," she commented. "Your father played the violin."

"Yes," he nodded. "My dad's the celebrated George Andrzej Saul, one of Gotham's finest violinist."

"You must be from a very lyrical family," said Poison Ivy as she took the picture frame to look closer.

"Unfortunately, I did not inherit my father's musical prowess. My brother Jacob did and has this booming tenor," said Michael as he pointed out his brother in the picture. "He performed at La Scala and the Sydney Opera House."

She placed the picture back onto the mantle.

"And you are an MIT graduate, right?" asked the villainess as she pointed at the graduation photo.

"Double doctorates in physics and biology," replied Michael. "I did my bachelor's here at Gotham U and my medical and psychiatric training at John Hopkins."

"Overqualified for the job?" smirked the villainess.

"No," he replied modestly. "I'm just like a German car: fast and efficient. "

"And you're Polish?"

"Half," answered Michael hastily. "Half-Greek, half-Polish."

"And who's this girl in this picture?" she asked, pointing her index finger at the photo of a smiling Michael and the mysterious girl.

Michael stayed silent. He grabbed the photo and walked past the villainess. With a loud thud, he plopped himself upon his chair that faced the reclining psychiatrist's sofa. Poison Ivy slowly slinked back to the sofa. Walking past the suddenly quiet doctor, she tried to take a look at his face. To her, Michael seemed to be lost in his mind. His pursed lips made him look like he was half-smiling, half-frowning. His eyelids opened and closed, drooping slowly up and down as he tried to gaze and avert himself from the photo.

"Are you alright, doctor?" asked the villainess with her voice tinged in sympathy and irritation.

"It's been a while since I last looked at this photo," said Michael with his stifled voice. "Six years…"

"Who is she?"

"Hannah," sighed Michael exhaustedly. "Sweet, sweet Hannah."

"What happened to her?" she asked with a tinge of curiosity.

Suddenly, Michael's snapped out of his trance.

"Pamela, I want to make a deal with you," said Michael coolly as she cocked her head in interest. "I'll tell you about my life and Hannah and whatever you want to know about me in exchange for a piece of your life."

"And what would happen if you don't comply?"

"Do you see the sun and the sky?" said Michael, pointing outside of his window. "I know you won't see much for now but if you cooperate with me, I will give you a very big privilege."

"I already have my roses in the darkened cell, thank you," she mocked.

"Did I mention that I know the judge well enough to just wipe your very black record?" opined the psychiatrist. "I can just make one letter, one email and a phone call. All of your records as Poison Ivy go straight into a shredder and a recycling bin."

"I'm glad you're not going to burn the records," she again mocked the psychiatrist. "I can get someone I know to do that for me."

"When I say, 'Wipe the slate clean,' I meant it," he replied with a slight sign of irritation. "I am not only going to get you out but if you give me whatever I ask for, I can get you out of Arkham faster."

"I can just break the walls with the help of my plants."

"Once and for all," screamed Michael at the top of his voice. "I am offering you an immunity if you cooperate. And this is what you do and you can't even stop your active renouncement of this system. You keep publicizing your intentions to openly escape. And this is why you keep coming back. It's not that you want to stop the evils of environmental polluters and destructors. Because surely if you do it properly, you won't end up here."

"I speak for nature, Michael," she barked back at Michael. "The Green beckons me to do its bidding. I am always come back here because you people don't see your errors. You keep calling me a 'terrorist'."

"Because you are terrorizing people who are following a system!"

"It's because the system is flawed!"

"Yours is equally flawed, you stupid bitch!"

She slapped Michael across the face and proceeded to head to the intercom. She asked the nurse to bring the guards to send her back. Her emerald green eyes flared and she looked at the psychiatrist with an absolute revulsion. As Michael rubbed his face, trying to soothe the wide slap he had received, he noticed that the glass on the framed photo of him and Hannah had cracked. He had realized that during the tenuous shouting match between him and the Queen of Nature, he must have forgotten to safely stow away the precious photo of him and his beloved.

He stroked the photo gently and lovingly with his hands. He felt the cracked glass with his fingertip and let himself be cut by the glass. He bled a little. He walked back to the mantle and placed the photo back onto it.

Michael began to speak with his voice cracked and soft.

"Hannah and I once worked for Wayne Industries' Biological Innovation Division. We worked on many projects together as colleagues. Before we became a romantic coupling, she and I worked on a project so exciting that Bruce Wayne and the President of Zambia personally thanked us. We generated a strain of millet grain that could theoretically survive even in the harshest of droughts. What we did was to ensure that the roots could go as far down as possible."

"Like a cactus?"

"More or less. We wanted to make sure that in areas where the drought would severely affect the output of production, the poor farmers could still survive with their own water supply without having to water their plants."

"It's completely against nature."

"But it worked!"

"You changed a bit of the plants DNA to do that."

"Just like what you had done before you became this. Just like what you are now. Just like what you are currently doing that landed you in here."

"You and I are alike," muttered a surprised Poison Ivy.

"No," Michael quickly rebutted. "What I got in the end was heartbreak and a flower that I still take care to this very day."

"What?"

"This orchid," said Michael, bringing the fourth photo close to the villainess. "It was a gift from Bruce Wayne to Hannah. For her excellent work."

"Why are you taking care of it?"

"Maybe another day, I'll tell you why I am keeping it," said Michael now calm.

He placed the photo back.

"Michael, I have a very odd request."

"Alright. What is it?"

"I'll work with you. I'll tell you everything about my life in exchange for whatever you can divulge in your life."

"Great!" Michael exclaimed.

"But I don't want to tell you anything today. I will tell you something about me."

"The next session will be on Tuesday, next week."

"No, I want to see you tomorrow."

Michael chuckled.

"Tomorrow is Halloween and a Saturday. Nobody's going to be here."

"I am serious, doctor. If you want me to cooperate, I just want this one request. Come tomorrow."

"Okay…" agreed Michael with some hesitance. "Tomorrow morning will be fine then."

She nodded.

"Christ Almighty, a Saturday session…" muttered Michael as he jotted down on his journal.

"And bring your orchid," blurted the villainess.

"Pardon me?"

"Bring. Your. Orchid," said Poison Ivy with a pause breathed into every word.

"I'm not going to do that."

"I am not asking for much, Dr. Saul."

"I know you aren't…" said Michael impertinently. "But this is too much."

"Is bringing your orchid such-"

"I am worried," interrupted Michael. "I know what you are capable of and I know what happened to my predecessors."

"Saul, I won't do that after promising you so much."

"That's what Harley said after meeting me for the first time and she nearly bit off my face."

"Saul, I won't do anything that will hurt you."

"And what happens if you do hurt me?"

"Write this down in your notes about me."

"What?"

"Just grabbed a pen and write this down."

Michael followed her instruction.

"I, Pamela Lillian Isley a.k.a. Poison Ivy, will not harm Michael Saul during my stay here at Arkham Asylum, in addition to my already waived rights upon entering this mental asylum slash prison. If I do and evidence of said harm comes upon the good doctor from my abilities and my good self, I will immediately plead guilty to all charges of assault against him and I will insist on the harshest punishment upon me allowed in the state of Gotham: absolute solitary confinement within the walls of Arkham Asylum. So help me, Nature."

Michael looked like a deer in the headlights. He was stunned by her declaration. He was more surprised as she picked up his pen, licked its tip and signed the freshly and hastily written document.

"Michael, please sign here," she asked Michael, pointing at the empty space of the journal.

With a swift dance done by his pen on the paper, Michael signed one of the weirdest declarations he had ever written. Normally, all it took was a long arduous process to get someone to cooperate. This was abnormal. With other villains, a fight or a sign of trust had to be bridged to find a relation. For him, Mr. Freeze eventual trustbuilding with Michael was already weird. At one point, Mr. Freeze's crazy, fire-powered wife, who snuck into the facility impersonating someone else, engulfed the villain in a ring of fire. This caused the orderlies and Michael to use the fire extinguishers to stop them both from causing damage to the facilities and themselves.

"Dr. Saul, tomorrow, ten in the morning."

* * *

><p>Dinner at Michael's house was typical. Together with Cassandra, a woman he had been dating for the past three month, he ate his rice pilaf. Tonight, the typical voracious eater prodded his food forlornly. He played around with the shrimp and green peas, looking lost in his thoughts.<p>

"Are you alright, Mikey?" asked Cassandra.

"No," Michael shrugged. "There's something I've got to do tomorrow at work."

"It's a Saturday!" exclaimed the musician. "How can they make you work on a Saturday?"

"Cass, Aristotle and I are great friends. What kind of a friend would Aristotle be if he decided to give me an extra shift at Arkham?" articulated Michael. "Besides, it was a request from a patient."

"You won't be helping me pick my costume for tomorrow's Halloween gala then?" asked Cassandra, pouting at her lover.

"Sorry, I can't."

"But you will be at the gala tomorrow, right?"

"I will be there. It's a company party and I need to be there."

"Are you still sure that you want to dress like that?"

"It's Halloween! It's a time I get to show off my costume."

"But it's so lame," she whined mockingly.

"The Rat Pack isn't lame. You know what is lame? A woman who is the eerie sound you hear on the radio's static," he jokingly declared.

Cassandra could not stifle her laughter any longer. Michael also joined in, laughing as boisterous as his lover did. Smiles were abundant in Michael's apartment in such a long time that the laughter echoed throughout the entire building.

The rice pilaf continued to cool.

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><p><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong>Once more, please leave reviews! I like when people tell me I'm wrong or right. Improvement is the key for me and REVIEWS help.<strong> And continue to Favorite my story if it pleases you. And I cannot stress this enough: please review the story.**************


	13. Halloween Pt 1: The Tailor & the Traitor

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of this fanfiction with the pure exception of Michael Saul and several other characters. Characters such as Batman, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze and others belong to DC Comics and their respective creators/corporation.

**Hello again! I'll keep it brief about my feelings about this chapter. I had problems writing about having character do a bottle episode before. I do well with scripts but in a novel form, bottle episodes are hard to write. What makes it worse is that the characters will be wordy and not a lot of action is involved. So, in short, I hate writing this chapter.**

**Also, this chapter is just in time for Halloween. So, this will be a fun time for me and I hope I get to finish the next two chapters in time for this holiday.**

**As usual, please leave reviews and critiques (again, for me, this story is a practice on grammar and continuity writing). Also, like or fave this story. Constructive criticism is very much welcomed. Please enjoy reading this and hopefully, reviewing it too! Enjoy!**

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><p>"Good morning, Cash!"<p>

"Good morning, Mike," greeted the head guard Cash as Michael passed by, raising his mug of coffee in the air.

As he walked towards the elevator, Michael noticed that the usually heavily guarded Arkham lacked security. The lack of armed guards by the side of the main doors and the elevators was something atypical for the asylum. With the breakouts happening frequently at both here and at Blackgate Penetentiary and the immense histories of breakouts in the county of Gotham, it perplexed the psychiatrist that the security was lackadaisical.

"Hey, what happened to Ralph and the rest of the guards?" inquired Michael looking back at guard's desk.

"Ralph got some time off but I have six men down with the flu," bemoaned Cash. "You just don't get six people suddenly sick."

"Weren't they handling-"

"Those two patients of yours? No. They got assigned to that investment wanker and the Mad Hatter. I had to switch people around and if you feel insecure, you're just going to have to deal with it until tonight."

Michael chuckled. "Investment wanker?"

"That fucking asshole stole money from people like me. In fact, he did."

"But it's so unlike you to use the British vernacular…"

"Although I have a diploma in Criminology from Arkham State University does not mean I don't have the vocabulary of garbage man."

"With the way we are going, people who have doctorates would have to start making shells for the Nazis."

"Doctorate in film, eh?"

"Ha ha. You're funny."

The absence of sound typified the sessions Michael and Poison Ivy had with each other. Every time, most of the meetings was just the courteous greetings, no matter how one-sided the simple "good morning" or "goodbye" was. And both just sat in their chairs with Michael looking at her and her looking at the floor. The atmosphere was tense and this scene always was the routine for the psychiatrist.

Today, the session took place in Michael's office. Just like any other office at Arkham, it had the usual workplace clutter and personal effects. However, the office was messy as files piled up high on whatever available surface. A once beautiful beige sofa was now a bookcase while an old antique end table became nothing more than makeshift filing cabinet.

Just like an ordinary weekday at Arkham, Michael had his usual paperwork stacked high upon his desk. However, Michael was working on what was considered two unusual days.

Firstly, today was Halloween. In that past, Arkham Asylum had been plagued with violent escape attempts on this day. As much as the institution had been rebuild from the ground up countless times, security measures had been lacking in recent days. With the most notable incident resulting in Michael's hospitalization, the trustees of Arkham intend to ensure that the patients-cum-prisoners do not leave the place. With the mounting frustration of the head guard trying to find quick stand-ins for the evening, Michael could not find any confidence in the trustees' assurances.

Secondly, it was a Saturday. Michael worked five days a week, ten hours a day. Michael's plan for the weekend was to enjoy his time with Cassandra. To top that off, he had to prepare himself for the Wayne Foundation's Halloween Benefit Dinner, an annual event that Michael rarely attends. Although he had been a Wayne Industries and Wayne Corporation employee for most of his working life, he felt it unnecessary to mingle with his co-workers. He had a professional attitude even when his dear Hannah was alive, often keeping his social life separate from his work life.

When Hannah was alive, he remembered attending few events. She preferred to stay either at home or at the lab. It was either all fun or all work for Hannah and Michael. The only memorable Wayne Corporation event they went to as a couple was a mysterious yet alluring masked ball during Valentine's. For both Hannah and Michael, it was a romantic getaway close to home and a memory locked away until today.

With Cassandra, it was different. Michael still shies away from some events. The outgoing Cassandra, who Michael cares for deeply, wants him to be at her side, especially at these parties. Cassandra made him go to the event. If it were not for Cassandra, he would have stayed at home, giving out candy to children as they trick-or-treated. If she were not performing at the benefit dinner, he would have just stayed at home watching old Halloween movies. If he weren't going steady with her, he would have just spent the entire evening sulking at home. If it were not for Cassandra, all these opportunities and possibilities would not have opened up for the psychiatrist in his life.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

"Good morning, Dr. Saul," greeted a cheery Dr. Joshua Tindall as his head peaked through the door. "May I enter?"

Michael quietly nodded and gestured him in.

"You're really dedicated, Michael," chimed Joshua. "Coming in on a Saturday."

Michael quickly glanced at his peer. Joshua was dressed in a regular T-shirt with some weird cartoon animal plastered on it. Neither his faded jeans nor his expensive leather shoes complimented the brightly colored shirt he was wearing. To Michael, it was eclectic. To Joshua, it was fashionable.

"Well, if a patient asks for a Saturday session, I learned not to deny them anything," said Michael. "Taxpayer money already pays me and put them in here… What do you want, Joshua?"

"I needed to find a tailor who can do some quick alterations to my suit. My regular one left for Oklahoma for a week."

"You could go to any tailor," murmured Michael in an irritated fashion.

"No, Michael," laughed Joshua. "Someone told me that you know tailors who can make alterations in a few hours."

"All tailors could do that, Dr. Tindall," sighed Michael exasperatedly.

"But you know someone who has done those really good ones…"

"If I gave you my tailor's number, would you just leave me alone?"

Joshua nodded eagerly, putting his hand out like a beggar begging for alms. Michael opened his drawer, took out his notepad and wistfully wrote down with his embossed gold pen the details of his tailor. After writing it, he ripped out the paper and handed over the note to Joshua.

"Thank you!"

"If you want a discount, just tell them Andrezj's kid sent you," blurted Michael.

"Andrezj?" asked Joshua with his eyebrows raised.

"You've got to know my father, right? George Andrezj Saul?"

"I really don't know who he is," said Joshua with a quizzical expression. "I'm from Washington, remember?"

Michael flipped one of the framed photos on his desk and showed it to Joshua.

"You see the man in the thick-rimmed glasses playing the Strad?" gestured Michael to Joshua. "That's not him… that's Jack Benny. My dad is the orchestral guy sitting behind him."

"Wait," exclaimed Joshua, reeling in from the revelation. "Your father played with THE Jack Benny?"

"My father worked for television, radio and, what I think is his proudest achievement, the Gotham City Philharmonic Orchestra," stated Michael with a small smug grin upon his proud face as he placed the photo back. "This photo of him laughing with the orchestra as Jack Benny played his Strad was his favorite photo."

"That's amazing!"

"He also had a few photos of him with George Burns and Frank Sinatra. Playing for Frank Sinatra at the Sands with Don Rickles opening the show was the highlight of his life."

"How did he get from Vegas to Gotham?" asked Joshua inquisitively. "That is such a quantum leap…"

"My mother and my brother were the reason to stay back at Gotham," chuckled Michael as he showed another picture of his family.

Suddenly, the two men heard a familiar knock on the door. The door creaked open and Aristotle strode into the office. Aristotle was wearing a gaudy, shiny white sequined jumpsuit. The tassles on the sequined suit jingled as the psychiatrist walked into the office.

"Jesus, Hermes," flabbergasted Joshua. "You look like a cheap, Greek Elvis."

"You're just missing his excessive weight and a peanut butter banana fried twinkie," exclaimed an equally shocked Michael.

"That's funny," mocked Aristotle sarcastically. "Dr. Tindall, your wife is waiting for you by the elevator."

"That's right! I've got to go, Michael!" said Joshua, bidding his farewell. "See you at the party, you two."

The door closed behind Joshua as he left the room.

"You never speak to Joshua," irked Aristotle. "You hate him."

"As long as the bastard doesn't tell me how to do my job or tell me that the Joker is an innocent puppy, I'm alright," said Michael, placing his photos back on the mantle. "He wanted a bespoke and I gave him a recommendation."

"Casimir at Boltwood?"

"Yup…"

"Anyway," hummed Aristotle as he wanted to shift the conversation. "You're having that extra session with Poison Ivy today?"

Michael nodded affirmatively.

"And what's that orchid doing in the office?" asked the elderly psychiatrist, pointing at the potted plant.

"She asked me to bring it in."

Aristotle collapsed onto the chair, slumping down that his back was leaning against the bottom seat. He exhaled a deep sigh as he wiped his face with his broad hands. He took off his glasses and rubbed his suddenly tired eyes and his furrowed brow.

"You're inviting death to your apartment by bringing that orchid here, Michael," said Aristotle resolutely. "She's going to make that thing grow into vines and she's going to strangle the ever-living shit out of you."

"You do remember that she already did that to me right in front of my house, right?" reminded Michael. "Did you remember I spent two weeks staying in a hospital for that?"

"That was different," Aristotle retorted. "Here, she can readily escape from Arkham easily. She could just grab your orchid, toss that shit on the ground, break a hole in the wall with its tendrils growing at an exponential rate and release the psychos unto Gotham."

"But-"

"And do you remember your predecessors who treated her? Dr. Richardson? Dr. Harris?" continued an increasingly flustered Aristotle. "They were hypnotized by her! They let her out like a dog to a backyard! All of that was captured on camera! What made it worse was that Dr. Kensington was a woman and that 'infatuation bug' bit her too! Remember…? She shot herself after helping Poison Ivy escape when she came to her senses?"

"I know…"

"Michael, I thought you would know better than to let her manipulate you to bring something that dangerous to your office."

"And that makes it the perfect trust exercise, Aristotle!"

"How?" asked a bewildered Aristotle

"Unlike the other doctors, she actually kidnapped me and took me as a hostage," clarified Michael. "Within three days, the other doctors let her out. It's unprecedented that she took an Arkham doctor hostage. The autopsies for the other doctors had poisons in their systems or elevated pheromone counts within their nasal cavity and blood stream. For some weird reason, she couldn't get a hold of me."

"It's like you have the mutagene to stand up against promiscuous women," mocked Aristotle.

"Funny…" replied Michael sarcastically.

"Still, it's risky. She could easily make your thing grow and break out of here."

"Wouldn't bother me a bit…" said Michael confidently. "It would mean less work for me."

"Which we need to talk about after Halloween," said the head psychiatrist gravely. "Having five patients won't cut it."

"What about Tindall?"

"Contract," said Aristotle as he headed towards the door. "It is defined by my inner thesaurus as a legally binding document between two or more parties that determine a set of conditions for a set amount of work done."

"What happens if you are unsatisfied by the work stipulated by the contract? Like this unpaid overtime I'm about to do?"

"Bye, Michael! See you at the party," waved Aristotle as he walked out of the door, ignoring Michael's callous words.

* * *

><p>Just as the previous session, Poison Ivy sat across from Michael. Although there were fewer guards escorting her today, he made no notice of it. After all, the head of security had enough on his plate and Michael's impromptu session that required the services of a guard did nobody any favor.<p>

As per usual, she wore her regular prison attire. Her green skin became a tad paler while her hair looked even more tousled that usual. She crossed her legs and Michael smiled at her, twirling his pen like a cheerleading baton. Every rotation slid the pen through his knuckles seamlessly. She squirmed in her seat restlessly, peering over the doctor's shoulder to see the thing he had promised to bring.

"May I see your orchid?" asked Poison Ivy, still trying to take a look at the plant.

"Sure."

Michael rose from his chair and walked towards the bookcase where he kept his plant temporarily. Slowly, he raised the pot that housed the delicate flower and moved it towards the villainess. She gleefully held out her hand and grabbed the pot. She thanked the doctor and started fiddling around.

As Michael sat on his chair, he noticed that she prodded the leaves and the bulbs of his orchid. She swung the stalk around and peered it with extreme scrutiny. She grabbed the flower and smelled it with vigor. He noticed that her mind seemed to be processing the information of the plant. Her eyes rolled around wildly as she began to mutter under her breath silently as though she was talking to herself. Her usually stern face now had various expressions that were never expressed before.

Suddenly, her face froze. She slowly turned away from the plant and looked at Michael.

"Bruce Wayne gave you this plant, correct?" she quizzed Michael.

"Y-y-yes," hesitated Michael. "Many years ago…"

"Did you know that this plant was taken from her home?"

"It's a Turkish wild orchid."

"Why did that forest killer bring this for you?" asked the villainess with a voice of absolute contempt.

"My girlfriend at the time loved flowers," said Michael calmly. "According to Mr. Wayne, this was a gift from the Turkish government for setting up a factory over there. We got the plant as a thank you from his for creating a successful irrigation project in Zambia."

"Did you know that this plant is threatened species in Turkey?"

"That's why it's survival for the past eight years shows that I've been a better caretaker of it than its true home!" smirked Michael smugly.

Poison Ivy then turned to plant and closed her eyes. She rubbed her long fingers along the stem that housed the flowers. As the pollen gathered around her fingers, she gazed seductively at Michael while licking her pollen-covered fingers.

"You can tell a lot from looking at the leaf, stem and flower of any plant," said Poison Ivy. "I'm among the fortunate few who can understand flowers."

"I'm an environmental hazard and I should be killed for raising a flower from its native land because it was a gift that means a lot more to me than anything else," blared Michael sarcastically.

"Actually," chirped the villainess. "This plant tells me that you would waste hundreds of dollars during the colder months to keep it at an optimal temperature."

"How does a plant understand the concept of money?"

"It hears you complaining about it and then, crying over…"

"That's enough information from my plant," interrupted Michael as he took the plant away from Poison Ivy.

"That plant even told me how you had to shield it from the autumn winds by letting it be in your coat today."

"It's a remnant of my old life. The last thing I want to kill is this memory and this plant is the last thing that truly matters. Besides, I don't drive. There's no other way than to keep it close to my body. It's at least a reasonable form of temperature control."

"Maybe you are an person who cares about the green," murmured Poison Ivy.

"Poison Ivy," said Michael gruffly. "I lived my end of the bargain. I brought you my plant and the great miracle is that I'm still alive."

"Why would I kill you for bringing a breathing, living flower to me?"

Michael now gazed at her silently with a bored look on his face, showing that he had enough of her diversions.

"Alright doctor," she said calmly. "I'll tell you about my life in high school."

* * *

><p><em>I'm writing this as we speak. She began by telling me that her life in a convent school had a profound impact on her. I could envision her to be an attractive young lady, dressed from head to toe in the academy's uniform, growing amply from her fiery red hair to elsewhere that I shall pretend is all part of puberty. I can picture her as a vulnerable soul as she kept telling about how different the world that she came from. She was no longer constrained by parental oversight but there were the nuns. Catholic nuns were known to be authoritarian by nature. A ruler, another patient once recalled, was the tool to restrict sinners from doing the Devil's handiwork. However, Poison Ivy was very appreciative of a nun in particular, Sister Rosemary.<em>

_I noticed immediately that Sister Rosemary had an herb-based name. For once, I've seen here open up to me like no other way when we talked about her. Here is a roughly made transcript of the affair that I scribbled as we talked._

"I've never seen you so happy about talking about a person."

"Well, Sister Rosemary was a person I really liked in that school. I did not really make any friends while I was there."

"You lacked friends while you were there."

"I had no friends. Sister Rosemary was the only one who was close to me."

"I'm sorry that you did not have any friends…"

"Spare me the sympathies, doctor…"

"Alright, why did you like this particular nun? Surely there must be others who you liked."

"Well, I was the only student who was in the gardening club in that academy. Everyone else were doing theatre or something else. She, on top of teaching us biology, was the coordinator in charge of the club."

"Why didn't anybody else join the club?"

"I think the girls there hated me. Also, the convent's garden was already taken care by the gardeners hired by the Diocese."

"Why did you think the girls hated you?"

"I don't know. Girls at that age are a treasure trove of unscrupulous rumors."

"You still don't know why people never befriend you."

"I… don't… know…"

"Let's move back onto the question of Sister Rosemary. What did she do when you and her were at the gardening club?"

"She was pretty much a teacher who taught me about every single plant. Every single thing that we passed by, she would deftly recall the history and the uses behind them. I learned a lot of her."

"Of her?"

"From her. I meant, 'from her.'"

"Poison Ivy… did she at any way did something that she was not supposed to do?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Was there some sort of misconduct between you and her?"

_At that moment, she stopped talking and stood up. She remained quiet for quite some time while I tried to get her to continue. She just looked out at my window for the longest time, sighing loudly whilst nodding her head. That truly unsettled me. I was afraid that she might choke me with my orchids and that would be the end of all my work. By the time she snapped out of her trance, the session was over._

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><p>"Time's up," said Michael as he stood up to use the intercom on his table.<p>

"I'm sorry, doctor…" said Poison Ivy meekly. "That took me to a bad place in my life."

"Don't worry," said Michael as he patted her back. "We've been through these kinds of flashbacks before. I've been through that as well. Besides, you're in here so we have ample time to talk about anything."

"Michael, before I leave, I need to tell you something…"

"What is it? Sister Rosemary couldn't be something you want to tell me so quickly…" joked Michael.

"It's about Arkham."

"What about this facility?"

"There's a traitor amongst the doctors. Someone purposefully let me and others out of our cells."

"Well, it can't be Harleen or Strange. They're locked away."

"It's not them… it's someone in the staff…"

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. The two guards who escorted Poison Ivy to Michael's office were now at the door, waiting to transport the criminal back to her cell. Michael directed her to lift her hands so that the guards and Michael could cuff her.

"How do you know it's the staff and not the guards?" whispered Michael to Poison Ivy.

"They're too dumb to let anyone go and smart enough to know how to not lose their jobs," she replied in the same hushed manner. "I'll only tell you this: the only people to have any access to do such a release are the doctors and the owners."

"Let's go, prisoner!" grunted one of the guards as they finished their cuffing custom.

"An escape will happen tonight, Michael," said Ivy with deep affirmation. "I want your trust in me now!"

"Shut up and move!" prodded the other guard.

Poison Ivy, now in chains and cuffed, was led out of the Michael's office. Michael looked at her curiously as she left the room while his mind began to process the words that ended their session. Michael pondered on who could be the 'traitor' amongst the doctors at Arkham. Then again, Michael knew that she was known to be manipulative and a lie was an uncommon currency in an institution like this.

"Maybe it's good that there's that party tonight," thought Michael, trying to forget his work in the stead of something more relaxing. "Traitor doctors at Arkham again… that's insane!"

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><p><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong>Once more, please leave reviews! I like when people tell me I'm wrong or right. Improvement is the key for me and REVIEWS help.<strong> And continue to Favorite my story if it pleases you. And I cannot stress this enough: please review the story.**************

**************Again, let me note that I hated writing this chapter. So, bombs away with criticism, people!  
><strong>************


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